Cicada
by sylphide-cathayan
Summary: Is there light beyond the darkness? And will it last? Schu+Youji, deathfic *finished*
1. Foreword

Title: Cicada  
Author: sylphide (kampflied@hotmail.com)  
Pairing: Schuldig x Youji  
Keywords: yaoi, heavy angst, violence, romance  
Warnings: deathfic, implied violence, rape  
Rating: R  
Spoilers: The Weiß boys' pasts, Ep 4 - Verrat, Ep 16 - Schatten, Ep 21 - Trane, Ep 24 - Ende des Weiß, Dramatic Collection II - Endless Rain

  


Disclaimer: Of course I don't own them; if I did, I would be doing a lot worse than merely _writing_ them into situations... ^.~ 

Notes: Just some info on the setting. The story starts a month after Episode 24 "Ende des Weiß". The Weiß assassins are currently staying at a mountain resort, which is where their target is residing. The fic opens on the morning after they concluded their mission. The Schwarz ones are currently nearby at their own private retreat, keeping a low profile to avoid SS. That both groups are in each other's general vicinity is pure coincidence, but hey, what's life without a few? (besides, I need to bring them near each other if I want an inter-group pairing to take place, right? ^^;;) 

In case the warning got lost in that mess of words up there, let me state it again: this is a **_DEATHFIC_**. Some characters are going to check out for good, and if I write it right, it would be damned angsty (it would be damned melodramatic if I don't write well, but let's not go there...). You've been warned. 

15th June 2k3: One last note: I've decided to html-lise Cicada (up until now, I've been uploading this to ff.net in text format) but ff.net has a habit of wrecking havoc on html tags, so, if you find reading/deciphering where one part ends and another begins, do tell me, okay? I promise to rectify the situation ASAP (after I curse ff.net, of course...).


	2. Part I

**Part I**

The morning sun was dreary and stark, which suited his mood perfectly, as did the chilling stream with its lonely whisper as it struggled its way around the rocks. Sunshine? Forget it. Even if the mountain over there had not existed to block off all sunlight, it was way too early for any real warm rays to reach earth. 

Youji tossed the stub of his cigarette away, and lit another. He smoked too much, he knew. So did everyone else. Just as everyone knew he drank too much coffee during the day, alcohol at night, and slept around _way_ too much. Could he care less? Not now. 

It was cold out here, but he was used to that. He had, after all, been out here for most of the night. He had watched the clear dark canopy of night, scattered carelessly with stars; he had also watched the pearly threads of white diffuse into that crystal clear darkness, merging into a bleakly murky shade of grey. 

That reminded him of her eyes—which was no surprise, actually; everything reminded him of her in some way. From the clear bright eyes that remained only in his memory had come Neu's gaze, apathetic, emotionless, truly dead eyes. 

He closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply, inhaling the deadly intoxicating smoke. Really, what was the point? The past was the past. She was dead. He had made sure of that. 

All the same, it was impossible to let go. 

Lifting his wrist, he stared at his watch with something akin to morbid curiosity. How did it feel, he wondered, to have the wire around your neck? To feel your oxygen supply being squeezed off, bit by inexorable bit? To feel the frenzy as your body scrambles frantically to keep up the necessary functions, then give up altogether, and shut down? To know the exact instant when consciousness clouds over, when the brain dies and awareness deserts flesh? He had long stopped counting the number of lives he had taken this way; it was pointless. All his victims start out alive and kicking—and end up as dead meat, hanging off his wire. The amount of time taken to die could be lengthened if he took his time tightening the wire, he knew, but exactly how would it _feel_? 

On retrospection, he should have done it faster. That way, she would not have had time to gasp out her last words, the words that, in a way, killed him as he killed her. 

"Youji-kun?" 

Yes, he should have pulled harder... 

"Youji-kun?" 

He startled. His reflexes had certainly gone to sleep, as they were apt to do these days. "What is it, Omi?" His voice sounded unnatural to his own ears. Try as he might, it was impossible to summon the glib ease he had once mastered. 

"Come and have breakfast." 

"I'm not hungry." 

"You are reducing yourself to skin and bones." 

"I've always been thin. Go away." 

"Not _this_ thin. Come back." 

Come back? Wasn't he too far gone for that? "Leave me alone, Omi. None of us bothers Aya when _he_ broods." 

"That's different." 

"It always it." 

"Youji-kun!" The kid sounded exasperated. "Are you coming or not?" 

"Don't pull rank on me, Omi. You're in charge of the mission but the mission is over. We've finished the bastard last night. Let me be." 

There was a long pause, then the younger boy walked away, dragging his footsteps. He was hurt, Youji could tell that. 

Sorry, kid. 

  


~~~

  


"He won't come," were the first words Omi said as he walked into the suite currently occupied by the rest of Weiß. 

Ken sighed. "Figures." 

Omi flopped into a vacant chair. "What are we to do? He's well on his way to a complete breakdown." 

"Is there anything we can do?" Ran [1] asked without looking up from his task of cleaning his blade. He had been the one to deal the final blow last night. 

"He doesn't even protest about missions anymore," Omi noted gloomily. "That's not Youji-kun." 

"Correction: he's not doing _anything_ the way he used to," Ken muttered. "He has always frequented bars, but never came back dead drunk as he does nowadays; he has always flirted with women, but now he's practically desperate for their company. The only stuff he hasn't started on is drug abuse." 

"And that may only be a matter of time," Ran added quietly, punctuating his sentences with the whetstone. "He has started frequenting the worst bars around." 

Omi blinked. "How do you know?" 

"We've gotten calls to collect him when he passed out on the counter, remember? I generally take a look around. Not his usual kind of scene." 

Ken grimaced. "I didn't know it was that bad." He got up and began pacing. "But what _can_ we do?" 

"Nothing, I'm afraid." Omi sighed. Let's go and get breakfast." 

Ken shared the sigh and got to his feet, while Ran put away his katana. "Have you sent the mission report yet?" the latter asked. 

"Not the full report. I left a message with Manx last night after we accomplished the mission, that's all. Why?" 

"Can you request for Persia to let up on missions for a while? If we're going to try to get Youji back on his feet, it might be better to do so here." 

"No memories of Asuka or Neu, you mean?" Omi nodded slowly. "I see what you mean... but mountain resorts don't come cheap." 

"Kritiker can afford it," Ken shrugged. "Besides, Weiß is valuable to them—we're one of the few teams it has that doesn't cringe about killing—and surely Persia wouldn't want us to be one member short." 

"And it's time we get a break, too," Omi agreed. "We got, what was it, two days? After confronting SS and Schwarz, you know. If we _don't_ rest soon, Youji-kun probably won't be the only one working on a shutdown." His eyes darted momentarily to Ken. "I'll try my best with Manx." 

  


~~~

  


A new set of footsteps sounded behind him. Firm, steady, not fast enough to be in a hurry or slowly enough to appear hesitant. Aya, he decided without bothering to look. 

The footsteps came right up to him. "You didn't come for breakfast," Aya said quietly, placing a can of beer and a hotdog wrapped up in a paper napkin on the grassy patch beside him. Without waiting for an invitation, the red-haired young man sat down beside him. 

Youji was feeling too lethargic to drive anyone away, at any rate. "Why beer?" he asked as he opened the can and took a sip. 

"I didn't think you'd be in the mood for anything nutritious." Cool violet eyes lingered on the pile of cigarette stubs. 

The sarcasm in that observation would have made him wince—had he cared. "I've run out of cigarettes for now." 

"So I've gathered." Aya hated cigarette smoke with a vengeance, as they all knew. 

He put down the beer and picked up the hotdog. "Are you going to get started, or do I have to prompt you with appropriately offending laziness? I presume you didn't come here just to offer me food." 

"No, I didn't," Aya agreed. 

"Then get on with the lecture. I know I wasn't up to standard last night, I put everyone else in unnecessary danger, et cetera, et cetera." 

"It's not about the mission." Aya paused. "Look, Youji, this may not be the best of circumstances for a talk, but we've got to have one." 

"Your point being?" He bit down hard on the hotdog. 

"You are spinning out of control." 

He laughed. What passed for a laugh from him nowadays, anyway. "Gimme a break. Life goes on, doesn't it?" 

"Life goes on, yes, but you aren't," came the curt reply. "Let go, Youji. The past is over and done with. You won't ever heal if you hold the pain close to your heart." 

He laughed again. "That's easy for you to say." 

"Youji, we've all experienced pain and loss before, we've all—" 

He cut off his teammate's words savagely, turning upon the momentarily surprised-looking young man. "No, you don't," he hissed. "You, least of all. Omi had to kill his own family, Ken ended his best friend's life and lost a cherished trust he had held since childhood, I've lost the only woman I've truly loved, _twice_, first time when she sacrificed herself to save me and second time when I killed her so that I may live—what have _you_ lost? Yeah, you lost your family, but you got the vengeance you sought, and you got your sister back, conscious and well! You have someone to live for! What, may I ask, do _I_ have left?" He gulped down the last dregs of the beer. "I've nothing but the past, Aya. If I let go of that, _what the hell do I have left_?" 

Aya was silent for so long that he thought the talk was over, but then the younger man spoke again. "Perhaps you're right. I'm more fortunate in the sense that I still have my sister to live for. But I do know how it feels to kill someone you hold dear." In a softer voice he added, almost dreamily, "I trusted him..." 

Youji wetted his lips. "That's before Weiß?" 

"He was in the first team I joined, and he betrayed us," Aya said dryly, almost as though he was telling someone else's tale. "I only found out two years later; during the mission that led Weiß to Sendai." 

"You didn't tell any of us." He remembered, with some discomfort, how tight Aya's shield had been. Nothing cracked that icy facade during those days. 

"I didn't see the need to." Aya shook his head slowly, as though trying to dislodge the painful memories from the forefront of his mind. "My point is, Youji, that betrayal by someone you care for doesn't necessarily signify the end of your world. Ken has survived his." 

"I'm not Ken." 

"I know." 

Silence crept back between them. This time, Youji knew for a fact that the talk was over. Aya had exhausted his points and so had he—but there was no conclusion to this fruitless conversation. 

He stood up slowly, not wishing to add over-straining cramped muscles to the incredibly long list of foolish things he had done. "If you wish, I can talk and laugh, pretending that nothing's wrong and I'm handling everything fine, or I can continue like this. Which would you prefer?" 

Aya sighed. "Your outer behaviour isn't the real problem, Youji." 

"And the real problem is one that I can't solve and neither can you," Youji finished for him. "Thanks for bothering, anyway." He turned to leave, heading back to the resort. 

"Where are you going?" 

"To get more cigarettes." 

  


~~~

  


"Anything on the news?" Schuldig asked as he entered the living room, kicking the door shut behind him. The scene that greeted him would have unnerved anyone who was not used to Schwarz. "Nagi, _this_ is your idea of keeping Farfarello under control?" 

"I make sure that there is no blood stain anywhere," the youthful-looking killer replied evenly. "As for the rest..." he trailed off with a shrug. "I think he's bored." 

"Fine, fine," he backed off. Farfarello was certainly a great asset when they were on a job of any kind, but all the same, he did not care to be too near the Irish young man while wearing newly cleaned clothes. There had been occasions in the past when he underestimated the distance blood could spurt. "Crawford?" 

"Nothing concerning us directly," the American said curtly. 

Schuldig rolled his eyes. "I hardly think SS is going to broadcast their search on air. But what else? I think you meant more than that." 

"Remember Weiß?" 

How could he not? Schuldig touched the fading scar on his neck gingerly. "Of course. It has only been a month." 

A month after severing ties with SS; a month of keeping a low profile and a lookout. As Crawford had pointed out—more often than necessary, in the mindreader's opinion—while Schwarz's strength was enough to handle any direct confrontations, the four of them had yet to perfect their defence system in other aspects. The leaders of SS have been toppled, but an organisation as powerful as SS had been would surely have enough manpower to seek vengeance. Hence, as of now, lying low was the wisest option. 

Which explained why the four members of one of the underworld's top assassination teams were cooling their heels in a mountain cottage right now—which in turn explained Farfarello's boredom. 

"What about Weiß?" 

"Earlier today a dead body was found on this side of the mountain. From the identification and the method of killing, it sounded very much like Weiß's kind of job." 

"The deeply-missed deceased being another 'dark beast'?" Schuldig guessed. "Amazing how far idealism can go. Which of their weapons was it, anyway?" 

"It sounded like Abyssinian's nihonto." Crawford grimaced in distaste. "One'd have thought they would have progressed to something more modern by now." 

"Sooner or later investigators from the police would knock on our door," he predicted. 

"Kill them," Farfarello interjected suddenly. 

"You have the most obvious solution as usual, Farfarello, but in this case—" he glanced at Crawford's look of annoyance, presumably directed at Weiß— "I don't think it's the best idea." 

"We'll draw attention to ourselves if we kill them." The American did not bother to elaborate on that point. All knew that SS followers could hardly miss such blatant leads to Schwarz's whereabouts. "If we leave, it amounts to the same thing." 

"As will my scrambling their brains like eggs," he chuckled, stretching out on the sofa comfortably. He was annoyed as hell, truth be known, but it was a matter of pride between him and Crawford in their semi-serious conflicts not to behave like the other was—and Crawford was already exhibiting his vexation. "So... that leaves cooperation?" 

"It certainly seems like it," Crawford agreed sourly. 

"Hey, Brad, look on the bright side. The last thing SS would expect us to be mixed in is a murder case like this where we don't stand to gain anything." 

Crawford levelled a glare at him for that, but did not press the issue. The don't-call-me-Brad argument had long been worn out and nowadays was only called up when they had nothing better to argue about. "So long as we don't give ourselves away." 

"Oh certainly. To all intents and purposes, we're a bunch of foreigners on holiday here to enjoy some fresh air—I assure you, I can wax eloquent about the species of rare plants found at this altitude—whatever that maybe—until the most persistent questioner's eyes glaze over." 

"And such an outrageous act would convince the police." Crawford's voice was heavy with sarcasm. 

"Come on, foreigners equal aliens; they don't think and behave like decent dull folks." He had read thoughts along this vein more often than he cared to count during his stay in Japan. For a country that appeared to embrace all foreign influences, it was in some ways still incredibly traditional in its attitude. 

"Fine." Crawford nodded, just as the phone rang. "Hello? Yes?" A pause. "Certainly, when should we expect you?" Another pause. "That will be fine." Replacing the receiver, he turned to the rest of Schwarz. "Investigators. Coming to ask questions in half an hour's time." 

"Did the chap mention the murder?" 

"No." 

"Great. I'll have to look surprised when he springs it on us." Schuldig sank further amidst the cushions. "I'm starting to prefer Farfarello's proposal. It has a certain direct charm in its simplicity." 

Crawford sighed wearily, a sure sign that he had been pushed as far as possible within safe limits, even for his teammates. Schuldig was well aware of the instances when people outside Schwarz had irritated the American far less than this and ended up dead by obviously natural means. "Don't get started on that again," he warned. "Here's the script: we've heard the news regarding the discovery of a body on radio, and we've guessed that the police probably wants to ask regarding that. We're willing to help, but unfortunately we know nothing about it." 

"Don't we?" Nagi muttered. 

"If we drag in Weiß, they'll drag us in, too. And Nagi, the interview with the police investigators would probably go more smoothly if they don't see Farfarello." 

"I'll see to that, Crawford." 

Schuldig waited until Nagi had brought Farfarello out before turning to Crawford. "How serious exactly are SS's people?" 

"Very." Crawford's shoulders sagged as he slouched forward in his armchair. "Once or twice they nearly found our trail." 

Which meant that only his friend's precognition had kept them safe so far. "We _really_ don't need this business Weiß landed us in," he noted wryly. 

"It's not the best time for us," Crawford agreed, massaging his right shoulder. "SS's devotees have been pouncing on all possible and impossible leads for the last month, and they are searching everywhere. Weiß's kill certainly complicated matters." 

Schuldig looked away. At that moment, there was no trace of the omnipotent all-knowing leader front that Crawford cultivated for the world; all that was left was an utterly exhausted man, tired out by his constant surveillance to keep his teammates safe. 

Despite personality differences and his constant poking fun at the other's more serious outlook, Schuldig knew—as did Crawford—that they were comrades. They shared the same goal—getting free from SS—and they could depend upon each other if ever the situation called for it. To know that some jerks had caused his friend _this_ much trouble—he felt a sudden urge to trash each and every one of the self-proclaimed white hunters. 

Sure, Schwarz had clashed with Weiß before, but that was before they themselves had wrestled their freedom from SS; then, they were only to happy to let the kittens live and destroy SS's various bases of power in Japan. Except for the last fight a month ago which got disrupted by an ocean bath instead of the planned blood bath, all their encounters had been marked by mere token gestures where combat was concerned. 

This time— 

Joint by joint his hands clenched into fists. 

"Schuldig?" He looked up at Crawford's question. The latter's eyes were on his clenched hands as he spoke again. "You're planning something." Truly, they had worked together for too long. 

"I want to pay Weiß a visit." 

Crawford was silent for a while. "They are currently residing at the holiday resort at the other side of the mountain." No reminders about being careful and no warnings to conceal all trails—Crawford knew he could trust him further than that. Besides, Schuldig suspected, the American probably want to send Weiß his greetings, too. 

"Thanks." The grim smile that lifted his lips was shared by Crawford. 

The doorbell rang. 

Crawford straightened and stood up. "How many of them?" 

He was already striding over to the front door. "Two. One investigator plus an assistant. They aren't feeling very suspicious; let's keep it that way." 

"And afterwards?" 

He grinned. It was a deliberate grin, one that bared his teeth. "Afterwards, I'm making a house call on a certain litter of kittens." 

  


~~~

  


Having finally changed out of assassin gear and taxed further into his supply of cigarettes, Youji headed out again, taking care to avoid his teammates. He wanted to be alone, damn it all. 

The mountain resort was sparsely populated, this not being the tourism season, and he made his way out without any interruptions. There was a small path leading from the back of the establishment and across a stream to the woods beyond, which spread up the mountain. He took the path. 

It was quiet in the woods, quiet and dark. What sunlight there was had been filtered extensively by the thick canopy overhead, and the three-quarters lifeless grass spread thinly on the ground, struggling for survival. Fallen leaves cracked under his feet, making him wonder for a moment just how long ago the last rain was. 

As he rambled on, his thoughts went back to the conversation just now. Omi, then Aya—and it was barely past nine o'clock. All he needed now was to scream at Ken and he would have set a record for managing to set all his teammates against him within one morning. Sure, they meant well, but knowing that did not help; it just made him feel worse for rejecting their sincere offers to help. 

"Asuka." 

She would have been the first to tell him to snap out of it, frankly. Well, she was not around to do that now. Youji dug out a cigarette and lit it, watching the lazy haze spiralling upwards as he exhaled slowly. 

They had made a strange couple in those bygone days, by all accounts. She rash and straightforward, he with a certain savoir-faire that kept their business going smoothly; yet for all that, their working styles complemented each other almost perfectly. They were not out for big business, but they were successful for such a small agency, and, more than that, they had been happy... 

The stab of pain that accompanied these faded memories was something that he had grown used to, by now. It always hurt to remember those early days, which belonged to a younger Kudou Youji, but never more so than now. The taste of contented happiness that once painted a blithe hue in his life now tasted bitter, two years down the road. Had he known happiness ever since her death? Sure, there had been moments spent with his teammates when he had laughed—and meant it—but always there was that gaping, aching emptiness where she used to be. He had sprouted the cover of a playboy, to be shed only when he drew his wire to kill... Asuka would not have approved of that, he knew. For all her raging against injustice, she did not believe in taking the law into one's own hands. Kill in the name of justice? Like hell. Weiß was essentially just a group of killers, used by Persia in his power struggle and vengeance against his own family. He had come a long way from the somewhat still idealistic youth whom Kritiker first approached two years ago. 

Sometimes, when he looked at his hands, they were still stained with blood. Her blood. 

"Hello, Weiß." 

The voice was unexpected, breaking into his personal hell, but he was too tired to feel surprised as he turned around, coming face to face with his nemesis. "Schwarz?" 

"Exactly," the young man known to the world as Schuldig replied as he launched into an attack. 

  


~~~

  


"Where's Youji?" Ken asked, looking at his watch. "I haven't seen him since this morning." 

"Probably off to be alone for a while," Ran replied from the experience of one who often sought solitude himself. "Let him." 

Omi opened the door and entered, wearing a grin. "Manx just replied; we get one week here—where's Youji-kun?" 

"Exactly what I was asking," Ken remarked with a frown. "Do you think we should go and look for him?" 

"You are worried?" Ran asked. 

"Not very—I mean, it's not as though he's in a suicidal frame of mind or anything, but still..." Ken made a helpless gesture. "I'm not comfortable about leaving him alone for too long." 

Omi sighed. "I get what you mean. How about this: we give him another hour or so, and if he's still not back, we look for him?" 

"All right." 

All three lapsed back into silence until Omi mentioned the mission again. "It's just as well that our target arrived late last night. Had he registered at the counter, I dare say the police would look at this area much more closely." 

"True," Ran nodded. "What's their opinion of what occurred?" 

"Their current conclusion is that our target met his demise while crossing the mountain, and never reached this side." Omi had hacked into the police's base and read the preliminary report the investigators sent. "There are some mountain lodges over on the other side, but so far, nothing suspicious there either." 

"That's good." Causing innocent people to fall under suspicion was something Weiß avoided where possible. "Any idea who they are?" 

"Mostly folks on holiday, with a bunch of foreigners as well. Nothing much there, I should think." 

  


~~~

  


The small stream appeared clean, but its coldness caused him to draw his breath sharply as he applied his soaked bandana over the large bruise on his arm, which was already turning purple. With his free hand, he touched his face lightly, almost wonderingly, feeling the flushed skin covered by a sheen of perspiration. 

Had that really been him? That ferocious, snarling, all-out fighter? 

All along, his fighting style—insofar as he employed one, that was: usually he left it to the more enthusiastic Farfarello—had been one dependent primarily on speed, on dodging direct blows and using all tricks to keep his opponents off-balance, at a disadvantage. It was a natural extension to his manipulative skills as a mindreader, that. He had never been one to favour the blow-for-blow, fist-against-fist kind—until today. 

Maybe, Schuldig decided as he rinsed the bandana again and placed it over another bruise, because he had a lot of anger to vent—and there was something brutally satisfying about giving someone a solid pounding. 

Not, he must add in all honesty, that he himself had emerged much better from it. 

His wry glance went over to the unconscious member from Weiß, now passed out face down on the ground. It seemed as though he had not been the only one with a lot of pent up emotions approaching boiling point; what was Kudou Youji's problem? 

A gust of wind stirred, gently lifting strands of sweat-soaked hair and cooling his still-heated skin as a self-mocking grin lifted his lips. Without any doubt, this had to be the worst fight he ever performed. What a pity that it was also the most satisfying. 

By the time they had gotten rid of the police just now, his initial irritation had developed into full-blown fury—to the ones unfamiliar with Schwarz, Crawford appeared as calm and unflappable as usual; to Schuldig, it was painfully obvious how tense his friend was, knowing that a slip here could mean SS on their trail—and he had been eager for an outlet, any outlet. The fight provided exactly that. Crude and painful it might have been, but the mental relief as fists connected and neck snapped back from impact had kept him going, heedless of the blows that landed on his own body until, finally, his opponent had been knocked out. 

Looking back at the fight now, he could shake his head and marvel at its stupidity, but he did feel better. He had 'let out the steam', so to speak. 

But what about his opponent? 

Again his gaze went over to the blond young man. From his considerable experience with human nature, he knew that Kudou had been seeking the same relief from emotional stress as himself. 

In a way, Schuldig decided as he dipped his makeshift bandage into the icy stream again, he respected Weiß. These four were far from fools—the weak and the foolish could never survive the underworld as they had done—yet they persisted in their hopeless battle against the darker side of mankind's essential nature. Weiß had been in operation for years—had he been in their place, he suspected, he would have given in to disillusionment long ago. There was something strangely admirable about this quixotism of theirs—he did not share it himself, and he had certainly used it against the white hunters before, but he admired it all the same. 

What had changed? The determined, deadly Balinese he had first met had little in common with this burnt out-looking young man before him. Had one white kitten, at least, begun waking up from his delusion? That would be a disappointment, actually. It would confirm his own view on human nature's inevitable eventual turn towards evil, but he would rather keep things as they stood now. 

Was that a paradox? He, who had tried hardest among his teammates to crush the romantic notions in their opponents, actually preferred them to remain staunch? What a joke. 

Still... Weiß stood for all that he had rejected, all the gentler, nobler aspects of life that he had turned his back on long ago. If even they gave in to the darkness around them, who else did he have to hate? 

"Where do you suppose Youji-kun may be?" From far off in the distance came the young Takatori's voice. "Up or down the mountain?" 

"Aya thinks it's probably up. Quieter up here, you know, with more cover. Let's look around." 

Schuldig briefly contemplated staying around for another fight, then decided against it. He had exhausted the anger that had fuelled his attack in the first place—and besides, he was aching. It would not pay to let Weiß see him and Kudou together; the kittens were a protective bunch, as well as perfectly capable of putting two and two together. 

The exclamations came when he was barely within earshot, well on his way back to Schwarz's side of the mountain. 

"Youji!" 

"Youji-kun! Are you—" The wind carried away the rest of the words. Not that he cared to listen, at any rate. 

Some time later, he was back at Schwarz's residence. Nagi opened the front door for him as he reached the steps. "Crawford saw that you'd be coming back." 

"How considerate." 

Nagi gave him a look of mild curiosity. "You didn't kill." It was halfway between a question and a statement. 

"Why should I?" 

"You went to pay Weiß a call, as I understood it." 

"I was venting my frustration, that's all." 

One of the Japanese boy's fine eyebrows raised coolly. "Sounds more like a tantrum to me." 

He gave the label some serious consideration. "Perhaps." That admission earned him a startled look from the normally reserved kid, and he responded with his trademark smirk before heading down the hallway to his own room. 

  


~~~

  


"Bloody Hell!" Ken swore for the umpteenth time as he wrung the towel dry. It required no great imagination on his two teammates' part to guess that he was visualising the assaulter's face—whoever it was—in place of the dripping towel. 

"Pass the antiseptic, Ken," Ran stretched out a hand from his seat next to Youji's bed, holding a piece of gauze with the other. His eyes were fixed on the other's bloodless face, alert for any sign of awareness. 

If only they had started their search earlier— 

Guilt welled up as he recalled the initial shock they had all felt when they came upon their missing friend, collapsed in a heap on the ground— The bleeding wounds and blue-black discolourations that bloomed liberally all over the inert body explained for themselves. 

How the three of them managed to convey Youji back to Weiß's suite at the resort without being observed, Ran had no idea, but they did manage that. 

The second bout of shock came when they started dressing Youji's wounds. 

They had all noticed Youji's gradual wasting away ever since the Schreiend mission, but the self-proclaimed playboy had always taken care not to let them see much of his body, exchanging the tight clothes he usually favoured for looser, purposely baggy ones. This was perhaps the first time they had really seen Youji close up for a long while, and the condition of that greyish skin with that certain death-like pallor, sunken between ribs that jut out sharply, was appalling. Then, in addition to all that, had come the vicious onslaught... 

"Damn the bastard," Ken muttered again, setting the basin of lukewarm water onto the bedside table with enough force to splash some out. 

"We should have searched earlier," Omi whispered, his eyes downcast. 

Vulnerable. The word came to Ran unbidden as he looked at his friend's tightly shut eyes. It was not a word he would normally have associated with his suave, smooth colleague, with that characteristic light-hearted banter—which just showed how far Youji had gone. Watching the slow rise and fall of his friend's shallow breathing, Ran wondered, with a painful wrench in his heart, whether they deserved even to be called friends. Friends were supposed to be there for one another; how could they have let Youji throw himself away for so long? 

"The bastard who did this is going to get it," Ken bit out ferociously, as he handed a fresh pack of sterilised swabs to Omi. "Oh, if only we know who it is!" 

"Schwarz—" came a hoarse whisper, though Youji's eyes remained closed, as if he was too drained to open them and parting split lips took up all the effort he could muster. 

"Them?" Omi exclaimed. "They are around?" After that last encounter a month ago, they had found no trace of SS's former subordinates. Kritiker had tentatively started considering them gone for good, but they—who had actually _fought_ with Schwarz—suspected otherwise. Still, they had had no proof either way until now. "How many of them? Any idea which direction they came from or left? Was it a planned ambush or chance encounter?" 

"One—" Youji managed to squeeze out before Ran shushed him. 

"Don't speak yet." He grabbed the pitcher and a glass from the nightstand, then eased his teammate up in bed while Ken rearranged the pillows to accommodate the new position. "Drink." 

The battle between the concerned friend and the hardheaded tactician was obvious on Omi's face. "Youji-kun—" he began again. 

The oldest member of Weiß gulped down half of the glass's contents before looking up, flashing a ghost of his old grin. "I'll live, kid." His voice was still to weak for Ran's liking, but the hollow ring to it, which had become increasingly marked ever since Neu's death, now seemed to have faded, somewhat. Perhaps, Ran reflected, the very bloodiness of the fight provided an anchor in reality for Youji. "Solitary attack, Schuldig; not sure if it's planned, but even if it was, killing me wasn't on the agenda. I didn't see him coming; was knocked out before he left." 

Omi's youthful face hardened as he stood up. "Thanks, Youji-kun." With that, he walked out of the room and returned a moment later with his laptop, which he set down on a table. "Any other points for the report?" Adroit fingers flew over the keyboard rapidly. 

"Don't think so." 

Ran allowed his attention to be diverted by the youngest—yet most experienced—assassin among them for a moment. If any of Weiß stood a chance of being promoted above field agent status, it would be Omi. Maybe Persia—their last one—had groomed him with an eventual leadership role in mind. The boy could certainly put aside personal feelings when the situation required it, now. For all he knew, in another few years they might be working under Omi instead of with him. [2] 

With a mental shrug, he turned his attention back to the present and resumed applying salve to the less severely injured areas. Nothing had been broken, as far as they had been able to ascertain, but it would probably take a good ten days before Youji could be considered for any mission, however minor, again. 

The rest of the day was spent in the general vicinity of their bed-bound friend, discussing Schwarz for the most part. 

"_Why_?" Ken muttered. "What do they hope to achieve by this?" 

"Put one of us out of action?" Omi suggested, although he did not sound sure at all. "Or maybe there _was_ no specific goal other than hurting... I mean, we did thwart their plans—insofar as we knew of them, anyway." 

Ran glanced at Youji. The latter had sunken back into slumber, and his watch lay demurely on the table, where it had been since this morning. "Perhaps we should start bringing our weapons around, he observed quietly. "If the goal of all this was to get back at us, I rather doubt they'll stop at one attack." 

Omi nodded. "Better safe than sorry—but how can you carry your nihonto around, even if disguised? My darts are no problem, and even Ken-kun's glove won't be terribly conspicuous until the claws come out." 

"I'll stay put; someone has to guard here." 

"Okay." 

Towards evening, the reply from Kritiker came. 

Ken was shaking with barely-suppressed rage by the time he was through reading. "Of all—" 

"What did Manx say?" Ran went over. "I see." 

The message was terse and impersonal: basically, Kritiker had received the information Weiß had reported, and measures would be taken to look out for Schwarz in the future. 

"What about _us_, meanwhile?" Ken demanded at the computer screen. 

"We look out for ourselves," he replied wryly. 

"I'm back, minna, sorry I took so long—" Omi's voice trailed off upon sensing the tense atmosphere. "What is this?" 

"Kritiker just told us it's none of their business," Ken said shortly, clearing an area on the table. 

Omi sighed as he placed the takeaway food packages on the table, and flopped into a handy chair with a resigned grimace. "Can't blame them, I suppose. They have been scrambling to straighten things out, and that's no easy job; confronting SS had left everything in shambles—why else would they plan to put us on mobile in the near future?" 

"Selfish chicken-livered jerks," Ken snorted. 

Ran would have rolled his eyes had he thought that it would do any good. "Let's eat. Ken, please go and see if Youji's awake. Omi, did you get the disposable chopsticks?" 

  


~~~

  


Someone knocked on the door. 

Schuldig sighed. He knew better than to read his teammates without permission, but answering the door in the traditional method was more of a chore. "What's up?" 

"Open the door." The speaker was Crawford. 

Schuldig groaned to himself as he struggled into a T-shirt, then went to the door and threw it open. The American's eyebrows rose as their owner took in his appearance. "You don't look as though you want to move any time soon." 

"I'll survive." He sat down somewhat gingerly. "So, what's this about?" 

"Weiß." 

Again? "What about them?" 

"They need a lesson." 

He looked across sharply. There was no trace of anger left on his friend's calm exterior, but underneath that— 

His own rage, Schuldig knew, could be violent and explosive, but once spent it would be laid to rest. Crawford's was the icy kind, damned hard to arouse and damned hard to quell. He had seen past examples of Crawford's anger, which were few—but memorable. And even if he had never witnessed it before, every instinct in his body now told him that the American was well and truly furious. 

"No further trouble expected from the police?" As though he actually needed to ask. Crawford would never have given his anger free rein until more urgent matters had been settled. 

"Hopefully." Crawford paused. "How long would you take to be back in condition?" 

"That depends on what's on the agenda." 

"No direct fighting." 

"Two days." 

Crawford nodded. "They would be on their guard now," he murmured thoughtfully, as though to himself. 

"Well, all the more fun for us, right? I assume we're talking about ambush, since fighting isn't involved." 

"Yes." Glasses flashed, reflecting the evening sun that now graced the window, for a moment concealing the ruthless eyes underneath. "The one you attached today was Balinese, right?" Seeing his affirmative nod, his teammate continued. "Being the closely-knit group that they are, Weiß would probably endeavour to make sure that their injured teammate is safe." 

"So it would be doubly satisfying to grab that one despite all their defences, no?" The mental image of that young man rose in his mind, and, for a moment, his smirk nearly wavered. Somehow, it was hard to suppress—what was it? Pity? Sympathy?—for the white killer who carried such emotional burdens that oblivion through pain became an attractive option... 

Crawford stood up. "I'll talk this over with Nagi later. Do you have any objections to paying Weiß a visit with him in two days' time?" 

"What about Farfarello?" 

"Not discreet enough." The subtle message behind that remained the same as what Crawford had repeated countless times: cover all traces—SS was on the lookout for Schwarz's trail. "So, agreed?" 

"Yeah." 

'Smile' was not exactly an appropriate term for the facial expression that crossed the American's face, but then again, neither was anything else. 

Privately, Schuldig wondered, sincerely wondered, if Kudou Youji could survive Crawford's fury. 

  


~~~

  


"Schuldig?" 

"Yes?" 

"You... don't seem very comfortable about all this." 

"Is that so?" 

"You aren't relishing what's going to happen later." 

"Neither are you. But hey, this is Crawford's show." 

"I don't think I've ever seen him this angry." 

"The strain of the last month has begun to tell." 

"Who can blame him? Still, I don't think Weiß intended it for us." 

"I'd have killed them long ago if they did." 

"Really?" 

"You see too much, kid." 

"So you _are_ uncomfortable about this. Why not tell Crawford that?" 

"Would you? You yourself said that you've never seen him this made. And besides, he tends to hold grudges. There would be no living with him until he has purged this from his system. Get it over with, I say." 

"But _why_ would you feel uneasy about it? It's Weiß." 

"I... I'm not very sure. Maybe because I've already spent my own anger by the time he proposed this." 

"A mindreader yourself, and not sure?" 

"The mind is a very delicate organ, Nagi. Feelings, thoughts, instincts, impulses... you can't reduce everything to the rational level of cause and effect, or action and reaction." 

"That's what Crawford usually tries to do, isn't it?" 

"He's not really succeeding, but yeah, he's trying. That pain-in-the-ass is too serious most of the time; it does him good to be called Brad once in a while—keeps things in perspective and him at a manageable level." 

"He's totally changed when he's angry." 

"A glimpse of the natural man." 

"Do you think, well, that this method of vengeance is a little... petty?" 

"Honest opinion? Yeah. It's sad, really. He tries so much to be above it all that we are not prepared for his real self—yet he's not at all a bad teammate." 

"Would you rather have him show his real self more often?" 

"Actually... no. I like the team dynamics fine as they are balanced now. We'll be like Weiß if we get cuddly." 

"Really." 

"Seriously; the way we are now is suited to the path we walk. And—switch of topic here—you've been making a great deal of my attitude tonight, what about yours?" 

"I'm rather irritated at them—I can tell from Crawford's expression that it was quite a close shave—but nothing beyond that either way. Farfarello takes Crawford's side—because he doesn't like Weiß." 

"Of course. His line of thought is always refreshingly short. The resort is over there, by the way. You can see the lights beyond the trees now." 

"Yes, I see them." 

"You aren't taking the whole thing very personally, I'd say." 

"I... haven't taken anything personally since she died." 

"Alright, alright, let's talk about something else, shall we?" 

  


~~~

  


Ran stirred restlessly, caught in that irritating nowhere between slumber and reality. The room felt cold, but surely it shouldn't? He did not recall adjusting the air conditioner to such unholy chills—and Youji definitely could not. Why was it so cold? 

The cold, it reminded him of that holiday, so long ago... Aya-chan had insisted on going far from their campsite, and, true to Murphy's Law, not bringing windbreakers assured rain... There was that blast of cool air... really, why did anyone turn it that cold? The blankets provided weren't all that thick—this wasn't winter, after all... The last thing he needed now was to catch a cold... and what if Youji was to start a fever? After everything else his friend had suffered... 

C'mon, Ran, wake up... Wake up and turn the stupid air-con off... 

Turning over, he buried his face against the pillow, savouring its warmth. He wanted to sleep, goddamn it. He needed to rest; keeping guard day after day was not easy. 

But it's cold... Just turn up the idiotic thing... 

Somewhere, a cold wind was blowing... 

The air-con was really too strong... 

Tired... 

Cold... 

Just rest... 

But it's cold... 

Somewhere along the way, the transition from dreamland to their hotel room had been completed, and Ran found his eyelids gradually parting, while the furniture shifted into focus. It was dim in the room, but not as dark as he recalled. Who drew the curtains? And what the hell for? It was not as if they have to get up early to open the shop... 

Sitting up, he turned to glance at the window. 

Against the dull dark wall hung a square tapestry of midnight blue velvet, dotted by countless tiny sequins that winked at him, twinkling as the tapestry shifted—wait, it was the curtains shifting, curtains drawn to reveal the square in between— 

It took a long moment for the implications to sink into his sluggish mind, then he was up and hurrying to his friend's bed, at the other side of the room. "Youji!" 

Then he stopped. 

Two steps in that direction were enough to show him what he instinctively already knew. 

The bed showed signs of being slept in, but now gaped emptily, its occupant whisked into thin air. Youji's blanket lay in a discarded heap on the polished floor, halfway between the window and the bed. 

Ran closed his eyes, remembering that heart-wrenching moment in the hospital when he flung back the covers only to find a deep cross cut into the mattress. 

Again, _again_, he had let down the people he wanted to protect... 

He took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. Now was not the time to dwell on guilt, well deserved as it was. Grabbing the katana that lay under his pillow, he knocked on the adjoining door between this room and the next. "Omi! Ken! Open the door!" Please, don't let them be gone as well... 

"Aya?" Omi's voice asked sleepily. "What time is it?" There was some scrambling, then the youngest Weiß assassin opened the door, blinking owlishly. Beyond him in the room, Ran could see Ken sitting up in bed, brushing tousled hair out of his eyes. "What's up, Aya-kun?" 

"They took Youji." 

  


~~~

  


Schuldig grabbed a can of beer from the fridge, tore off the tab, and chugged down half the can before he got a grip on himself. Christ, he felt sick. 

"Thought you'd be here." Nagi appeared at the kitchen doorway. 

"You can't stomach it yourself?" He jerked a thumb at the fridge. No one threw things at Nagi unless they enjoyed leaving a depression of the object on his own nose. 

The Japanese young man took a can of coke from the fridge himself. "I don't need a refuge for that, I came for a drink." 

Schuldig grinned wryly. "Poker face." 

"I try." Nagi took a sip. "You can't stand watching?" 

"I can, but I don't have to." He sat down on the kitchen counter, resting one foot on a high stool. "What are they doing now?" 

"Rape, the last time I looked." 

He nearly retched. "_Now_? After all the messy business of blood and what not?" 

Nagi shrugged. "Crawford's leaving it to Farfarello. I don't like to say this, but he fucks like an animal anyway." 

From the temporary torture chamber's direction came an inhuman shriek. He winced, and Nagi made an expression of distaste. "Finally. He certainly held out for a long time." 

He nodded absently. The white assassin's endurance was something that he respected immensely, to be able to refrain from screaming for over an hour under those two. 

And rape... He lifted the beer can to his lips only to find that he had already drained it. A primal assertion of the power one held over another, a show of brutal domination, a tool to humiliate and break, a taste of enforced submission... Rape was all these and more. 

True, he would resort to almost any tactics to defeat his opponent, but he drew the line there—at least where Weiß was concerned. He respected these four that much as enemies. 

Now, this... 

"If you feel so strongly about it—" Nagi began. 

He interrupted, having already picked up the rest of the sentence from Nagi's projected thoughts. "Talk to Crawford? No way, kid. One, have you ever seen him swayed by anyone else? Two, who am I to interfere? Not minding other people's business is one of our unspoken rules, and he hasn't done anything that _I_ haven't done before. Three, I _don't_ feel that strongly, anyway." Just uncomfortable. Just damned uncomfortable. Just sick. 

Nagi's eyebrows rose at the vehement denial. "If you feel like explaining, at least make it sound convincing." 

He sighed, and threw the beer can at the rubbish bin. It went in, bingo. "As I said just now, I'm not sure myself. I guess... I'm not feeling angry at Weiß anymore myself, so this appears somewhat excessive." 

"Oh." Nagi opened the fridge with his powers. "Want another can?" he asked, as a second pain-filled scream echoed about the soundproof house. 

"Heck, why not. Thanks." 

  


~~~

  


By now the three of them had covered every inch of the room and a hefty area in its vicinity. The result was not encouraging. 

"It's no good, guys," Omi sighed finally, straightening up from the fruitless task of looking for footprints. 

"What about search by computer?" Ken walked over. 

"What do you think I've been doing for the last two days?" Omi snapped back. "They've covered their tracks, I tell you." 

"Well, they can't be far. If we spread out—" 

"If we spread out we'll all be fair prey!" 

"Then what else is there to do?" 

"Am I supposed to have an answer to everything? Why don't _you_ try?" 

Ran let out a long breath. Tempers were short all around, and this could very well be the catalyst. "Ken, Omi." Someone had to break these two up. He did not feel up to it himself—he was certainly in no position to criticise anyone else—but there was no other person available. "They shouldn't be too far. We can stay together _and_ cover the area." 

Omi grimaced. "I guess that's the only option left... where?" 

"There are some cottages on the eastern slope." 

"Would they be there?" Ken's voice was a blend of doubt and frustration. "Rather blatant for a hideout." 

"It wasn't as though many people would suspect." Omi fingered his darts, then returned them to his pockets. "It _is_ possible. Might as well start there." 

"Let's go, then." Ken pulled on his gloves and clenched. The sharp claws came out with a steely hiss. "Come on!" 

  


~~~

  


It was nearing dawn now. The grass blades were heavy with dew, and he plucked one idly, fingering its smooth edge. There was just enough light to see his teammate, standing next to him. "They've left." 

"I heard them," Nagi replied calmly. "Are we going to get on with this?" 

"Of course." He stood up and stretched exaggeratedly. "Shall we go?" 

Ten minutes later, they were in Weiß's suite. Nagi deposited the unconscious assassin in the same bed where they had first taken him earlier that night. "Going?" 

"Go on first. I'm leaving a note for them." 

"Alright." 

After his teammate had left, Schuldig picked up a memo pad and a pen from the table in the room, then began scribbling. While waiting for Weiß to leave just now, he had decided on the message—as well as something else. 

Leaving the note on the table, he walked over to Youji's bed. The tightly shut eyes and clenched jaw bore silent testimony to what had been inflicted. Even unconscious, he had no sanctuary from pain... 

Schuldig laid his hand palm down on the bloodied forehead, and concentrated. 

  


~~~

  


[1]: I don't think it's really all that confusing, but anyway, Ran is Ran in his own POV, while others think of him as Aya. 

[2]: dramatic irony, I know. ^^;; 


	3. Part II

**Part II**

Snowflakes danced outside, fluttering with the wind as though in no hurry to touch down—and indeed, why should they? Snow translated to slush once on the ground. Idly, he stuck one hand out from the window and caught a few. Of course, they melted into nothingness at once. Youji chuckled wryly. 

"Figures." 

The blast of cold air had started seeping in, and he closed the window. The rest had wanted to lock the windows for good, but he drew the line at that. He appreciated their concern, really, but there was little point in it when he did not feel insecure anyway, after—whatever. 

It had been more than three months now, since the day he woke up in Persia's underground hospital, wondering what the hell happened and why he felt like crap. His teammates had been amazed that he remembered nothing of his night at Schwarz's—and then, one and all, refused to even describe how he had looked when they found him returned to Weiß's suite after a long day of searching. He remained on drip for the next month, and by the time he finally got a chance to look at himself in the mirror, all he could see was a paler, somewhat thinner version of himself—which would have been normal after so long out of the sun anyway. What had been so horrific that they refused to let him out of their sight? 

Youji sighed and turned back to watching the swirling snowflakes. The problem was that he remembered nothing, while his condition apparently made a deep impression on everyone else—thus all their concern seemed to be going overboard to him at times. Hell, even Persia had been giving only missions that required three or less people nowadays. Sometimes it irked him: what the hell actually happened? 

"Youji?" Aya's voice called from the other side of the door. "Are you in there?" 

He glanced at the clock; twelve minutes since he shut himself in. These three probably made a note in their diaries: 'check on Youji within fifteen minutes of not seeing him.' "Yeah, what is it?" 

"May I come in?" 

"Sure." He opened the door, and his friend walked in, two mugs of steaming coffee in hand. 

"Red mug's yours; milk added." Aya preferred black himself. 

"Thanks." He sat down and took a sip. "So, anything up? Or were you just making sure that I'm still around?" 

A look of guilt and obscure pain crossed Aya's face. "Just making sure." 

"Come on, did I look _that_ bad?" 

Violet eyes scrutinised him through the rising steam. "You still can't remember?" 

"Not a single fickin' thing. Nil. Blank." 

"Maybe it's better that way," the redhead said slowly, drinking from his own mug. "Your condition was... really bad." He stared down at the coffee. "I had nightmares for three nights running after we took you to the hospital, nightmares about witnessing what they did to you, unable to stop them, just looking on..." 

"Shit," he swore. "Don't dwell on that, alright?" 

Aya shook his head. "It was horrifying enough to even visualise watching; I can't begin to imagine how it must have been for you. Maybe it's your subconscious suppressing the memory. Self-preservation." 

"If so, let it stay that way. I don't think I want to remember." The pained look in those darkened violet eyes haunted him. 

"I agree," Aya murmured, sounding somewhat awkward. "If the memories do come back and you start feeling edgy or something, talk, okay? We're here." 

"I know. Thanks." 

  


~~~

  


Omi and Ken were waiting for Ran in their mission room. "How's Youji?" the latter asked. 

"About the same. Is the mission set for tonight?" 

"Yep," Omi replied, spreading a rough layout of their target's residence onto the table. "Ken-kun just finished drawing this. Take a look?" 

He leaned closer, taking note of the possible routes Ken had marked out. 

They went through the plans repeatedly—more than any of them was used to, although they had been going through this routine since Youji's injuries. With Omi managing high-tech stuff from Koneko, they needed to know all alternatives beforehand to coordinate properly. 

Finally, Omi sank into the couch with a tired sigh. "I think we've covered all possible contingencies. What mood was he in when you left, Aya-kun?" 

"Relaxed, bordering on exasperation. He may even be annoyed that you are staying behind with him." 

"As though he needs watching over, huh?" Omi grinned wryly. "He isn't taking this as seriously as we are, is he?" 

"Can't really blame him," Ken reminded them. "After all, he doesn't remember it." 

"But... you know what? For all that torture, he's no longer as depressed as he was before." Omi's eyes were thoughtful. "The mood he was in after Neu's death... it was freaky; I had the distinct impression that he was walking on the edge." 

"And now he's settled down." Ken agreed. "It _is_ rather remarkable." 

"You don't suppose Schwarz had anything to do with it?" Omi sat up suddenly. "Could they have meddled with his mind too?" 

The three of them stared at one another. Could the abuse have been even worse than they had imagined? 

  


~~~

  


The last wisps of steam had long faded, and the cooled coffee now sat on his table, looking for all the world like a neglected child. He picked it up, then sighed, and put it down again. 

He did not feel like drinking, not alone. 

With a start, he realised how far he had changed. Did he not close himself off after killing Neu? In those days, just being in the same room with anyone else—including his comrades—made him uncomfortable. Now... after so long with his three friends-turned-mother-hens, he found himself missing human company again, something he had thought impossible. When and how did it change? 

Outside, snow had stopped falling, and all was silent as he let his mind wander back, back to— 

That fight in the woods? 

He still remembered that day clearly, remembered turning around to meet a pair of angry blue eyes, remembered exchanging blow for blow, half the time not even bothering to dodge—that had hurt like crazy, but he had welcomed the pain, as though accepting punishment in a small way for all he had done. He deserved no better, did he? Accept and lighten the debt. It was, he realised later, the turning point that prevented him from sliding further into the abyss. 

Schuldig had not been out to kill that day; that much he knew, but beyond that, he had no more idea than before what prompted the attack. By all appearances, it seemed as though the goal of the fight _was_ to fight. 

Why? 

He had no idea. 

  


~~~

  


The throngs pressed in against him, both physically and mentally. Bodies writhed around him, some in ecstasy, others getting so high that they were on the threshold of falling—literally—into oblivion. 

And he absorbed it all, the rhapsodies, the insanity, the betrayals, the hatreds, the lust... everything that a floor of sinners could feel. 

Normally, he preferred to avoid crowds because of the mental shields he had to keep up, but not tonight. He did _not_ want to be able to read his own thoughts, thanks very much. He did not want to hear his mind at all. 

He wanted to forget. 

And if he had to drown his own mind to achieve a semblance of that, he would. 

The disco's music was blasted so loudly that the floor vibrated with the rhythm, yet he could still hear that seemingly never ending tormented scream. Would it haunt him forever? 

Weiß was Schwarz's enemy, damn it all. 

But he respected them as enemies; he did not want to break him— 

Well, they did not break him. Period. 

The combined heat from all the twisting, dancing bodies continued to assault him, enveloping him in its sweaty cigarette smoke-laced embrace. Still, the memories refused to be dismissed. 

It was a mindreader's particular curse that he could never truly forget. He could try, but all he could hope for was to crush these memories under fresh sensations. Yet, they were as resilient as that young man himself... 

Schuldig plunged himself deeper into the stifling crowd. 

  


~~~

  


"Let me go." 

"Youji-kun!" 

"You're not—" 

Ran did not bother adding his voice. Youji's mind was obviously made up. 

"I _am_ recovered. Do you want me to recite the doctor's remarks at the last check up?" 

"But we can handle it—" Ken began. 

"And so can I," the eldest assassin cut him off. "Am I Weiß or not? Are you guys my teammates or nursemaids?" 

The point was valid, admittedly. They _had_ been rather overbearing in their protectiveness, and Youji was not without pride or self-respect. 

"Well..." Omi sighed at last, when no one else protested. "Fine, just don't—" 

"If he wants to take risks, it's his decision," Ran interrupted. They had to let Youji pull his own weight as an equal again. 

"Thanks, Aya," Youji muttered as they filed out of the mission room. 

  


~~~

  


The room was painted with blood. 

Was that Crawford? No, not that twisted, snarling face, not those blazing eyes filled with an almost maniacal fury—for, truly, there were two madmen here, not one. That could not be his friend, could it? 

Strapped down in the centre of the room, _he_ lay motionless—but not still; no one could be still under all this—for he could not move, not even one muscle. Perspiration lined his body, mingling with blood. 

Farfarello sniffed delicately, and a slow smile spread over thick scarred lips. 

He clenched his jaw, desperate to scream—yet holding back, pressing bleeding lips together over otherwise bared teeth. Eyes closed, every muscle tense, he was on the very brink—but he held on. 

And everything was a savage, brutal red... 

Schuldig swore as he banished the dreams and sat up. Avoidance was not helping him to get over that scene three months ago. The memory was still there, vivid as always on the forefront of his mind. 

And really, when had he ever run away from his problems? Ridiculous. 

Perhaps... face it down and he could lay it to rest. 

The last thing he needed was to have it haunt him for the rest of his life—especially since he did not intend for it to be a short life. 

  


~~~

  


"We've got to be fast, guys," Omi reminded them as the car zoomed to their target's place, a large warehouse cum office building. "Some drug traffickers that the police are trailing might be meeting with our target." 

"Shimatta," Ken muttered. "We can't we wait them out then?" 

"Because even Persia isn't sure when they are actually meeting, and this guy is a big one in the drug market. From what I've gathered, he's in the midst of negotiating a deal that Persia is trying to prevent, which means that we've to act as soon as possible." 

"So, we dash in, off the guy, get his list of contacts in the field, and haul our asses out of there?" Youji asked, checking his watch. "You're sure about the room the list is kept in?" 

"More or less. Pity that it wasn't on computer; would have saved us a lot of trouble. I guess our target subscribes to the philosophy that what one can hide using software, another can hack." Omi shrugged. "Manx's video tapes follow the same principle—you can't download stuff in that format the way you do VCDs—but it's inconvenient when the other side does the same." 

"Don't worry, kid. I can handle my end." He flashed a grin at his old friend. 

The car pulled up just then. "Let's go," Aya said as he got out from behind the wheels. 

Five minutes later, Youji walked out of the lift onto the floor Omi had given him. At this time in the night, there was not a soul about, but he still softened his steps out of habit as he went down the corridors until he reached the room that Omi suspected to contain the wanted document. He picked the lock with practised ease using his wire, and slipped in. 

Wait! 

There was someone else in the room. 

He had heard nothing definite, nor saw anything other than pitch darkness broken by a shut window with curtains drawn over it, yet some instinct—which had saved his life more than once—told him that he was not alone. 

"You're looking for this, I believe," a voice said pleasantly into the eerie darkness. With that and a click, light flooded the room. 

"Schuldig?" He felt genuinely surprised. 

"Glad you remember," the Schwarz member smiled mirthlessly. "You look better than when I last saw you." 

"Thank you." His gaze fell on the envelope in the other's hand. Even if that did not contain the document he was after, he would have to get Schuldig out of the way if he wished to search the room properly. "What brought you here?" 

"Just curious to see how you're doing now," Schuldig smirked. "You want the list, I believe." 

"I believe so too," he agreed. "Although I doubt you're here to hand it over." 

"Hence, winner gets it." Schuldig tossed his head back, his eyes cynical. "Shall we start?" 

He drew his wire. "Let's." 

It was an even fight, much more so than the last encounter he could recall. In fact, the situation approached deadlock: he could not touch his opponent with that unholy speed, and Schuldig was kept at bay by the deadly wires. Warily, they observed each other, alert for any breach of defence. 

Suddenly, running steps sounded down the corridor. The next moment, his teammates showed up at the door, heralded by Omi's darts. 

"Schwarz!" Ken hissed, activating his claws. 

"At your service." The German blinked out of the darts' way. 

Meanwhile, Aya had placed himself between Schuldig and Youji. "Are you all right?" was asked softly. 

"I'm fine." Despite the tenseness of the situation, he nearly sighed. Protective mother hen. 

"Come on," Schuldig was saying at the same time. "We aren't done yet." 

"No way," Ken growled, while Aya drew his katana, still keeping himself between the Schwarz member and Youji. "You haven't paid for what you did last time yet." 

Schuldig shrugged fluidly with mock regret. "Seems as though we'll have to continue another day, then. Take the list, I've no need for it." He tossed the envelope in Omi's direction, neatly intercepting another dart. "By the way, Kudou, what do you make of the note I left?" 

Youji blinked. What note? 

But the unpredictable man had jumped out of the window before he could ask. 

  


~~~

  


Half way into his third vodka, his mind begun to turn fuzzy—exactly what he wanted. 

Whatever he had hoped to achieve, all he did get was more confusion. 

This was the first time he had seen Youji face to face since that morning. As he had commented, the marks of abuse had faded, but, more fundamentally than that, there was a look of alertness and life about him now, which had been lacking during their last encounter. There was a new strength where despair last existed. What caused the change? 

And seriously, what did he hope to get across with his parting shot? 

Schuldig refilled his glass again, mentally making a note to replenish his alcohol stash. Drinking provided no reply, but it _could_ short circuit his mind. 

Which was all he could wish for, anyway. 

  


~~~

  


"_'If we shadows have offended,/Think but this, and all is mended,/That you have but slumbered here/While these visions did appear./And this weak and idle theme,/No more but a dream./Gentles, do not reprend./If you pardon, we will mend.'_" Youji stopped and looked up at Omi. "This is the message he was talking about?" 

"As far as I remember, anyway. Aya tore up the original." Omi managed a half-hearted grin. "Personally, I can't say I blame him—it was a highly-charged moment." 

"Spare me the melodrama." He turned his attention back to the message again. What did it actually mean? "Is this some sort of ready made poem?" He found it hard to visualise a foreigner like Schuldig penning rhyming verse in Japanese. 

Omi frowned. "Maybe... try asking Aya. You know he reads more than the three of us combined." 

He nodded thoughtfully, still tasting the lilting lines on his tongue. "By the way, Omi, I'm going out later." 

"Out?" The naturally large blue eyes widened. "Where?" 

He paused. The thought had slipped out before he arrived at its reason. Where did he want to go? 

An image rose up in his mind. An once cosy office, two tables facing each other, the chairs waiting for their respective occupants to return... 

It still hurt, but it was no longer the acute pain of a fresh knife twisting in a bleeding wound. The pain, it seemed to be receding into the distance now... was he healing at last? 

"Youji-kun?" Omi's voice sounded apprehensive. 

He clicked back into himself with a start. "Huh?" 

"Do you mind company?" The younger boy asked worriedly. "I mean..." 

He mentally transferred Omi's head onto a plump wobbling hen's body, and grinned despite himself. "I've a hand phone; call if you're worried." 

"Okay..." Reluctance was obvious in that dragged reply. "But where are you going?" 

The grin faded. "I want to see Asuka." At the place where they had spent their only Christmas together, where they had been young... "To—say goodbye." 

Omi nodded, obviously comprehending the private nature of this trip. "Take care, will you?" 

"Of course, Omittchi." He had coined that nickname for his friend long ago, condensing the name and 'chibi' into one word. 

Omi mock-scowled. "Oi, Youji-kun!" 

He laughed, rumpled up the other's hair, and got up from his seat at the kitchen table to get the boiling kettle. "Coffee?" 

"Yep, thanks." 

It was almost like the old days, before Neu's appearance shattered everything for him. Joking, teasing, but always, with that warm undercurrent of support, which held them up through the long nights... 

But before he could truly return his teammates' concern, he must lay his ghosts to rest. And he wanted to be free; Asuka's grip had pinned him for over two years now. 

After tonight, he promised himself. After tonight. 

  


~~~

  


_"It's Christmas Eve! What in Heaven's name are you here for, Youji?" _

"Why are you here yourself?" 

"Not as though I've anywhere else to go, that's all. What's your excuse?" 

"Same as yours, I suppose... Why not come over to my place and we'll make this a night to remember?" 

"Dream on, kiddo. What kind of woman do you think I am?" 

"The best, Asuka," he whispered to her three-year-old memory as the car pulled up at their old office building. It had started snowing again. He went up the lift. 

_"I wish it'd snow. No Christmas atmosphere." _

"We can try. Turn off the lights." 

"Very funny, hentai." 

"Not that, partner. I mean this." He switched off all but the somewhat yellow light at the entrance. Immediately the stark sterile white light was replaced by the single bulb's weaker but warmer golden glow. "More homey now?" 

"Hey, that's pretty." She grinned. 

"We can improvise well enough." He grinned back. "We can wave a piece of red cloth before the light if you want an imitation of fire." 

"Nah, that's going too far. I've only seen people curl up by the fireplace next to some decorated tree in postcards anyway." 

"We can set up a tree here next Christmas to decorate. For now, how about carolling?" 

"Why not? I've to warn you though, I don't sing none too well." 

"And I can't hold a note if my life depends on it. Let's start howling." 

The lift reached his floor. Not a soul around—just as it had been three Christmas Eves ago, when two new PI partners spent the night there, neither having a place called home. 

He inserted his rusted key into the rusted keyhole and entered, switching on only the warm yellow light, not the fluorescent ones overhead that always seemed to reduce the place to a severe whiteness. "It's snowing, Asuka. Proper white Christmas." 

_"Look, it's almost midnight now. Sorry that I didn't get you a present; thought I'd spend the evening here alone." _

"That's okay. I didn't get you any present either. We have next year." 

"And a real Christmas tree." 

"And those long strings of light bulbs; multi-coloured ones, I insist." 

"Holly. Cones, too." 

"Cakes, and coffee." 

"With marshmallows." 

"One of those log-shaped cakes." 

"Pizza." 

"Ribbons." 

"Candles." 

"Bells; those that really jingle." 

"Some nice big cushions to curl up in." 

"A carpet and blankets." 

"Money." 

"What an anticlimax." 

"Well, it's true." 

"Fine, but it's not a fitting subject for tonight." 

"I wish it'd snow." 

"Same. Listen, there goes the chiming. Let's count." 

They did, jostling for space at the office's only window that commanded some view of the city illustrated by thousands of lights. "That's twelve. It's midnight now. Merry Christmas, Asuka." 

"Merry Christmas, Youji. We'll exchange presents next year, right?" 

"You can bet on it." 

He did prepare a present the next year, did so well beforehand—but before Christmas, before even winter came to Tokyo... 

A lump rose in his throat as he fished out the small package from his pocket, its once shinny wrapper now faded and worn in the corners. Two years late, but at last he was delivering it. "Merry Christmas, Asuka." 

When he placed the package on Asuka's old table, it seemed, for a brief moment, that she was there, accepting the present with a grin. It was the same brash, straightforward young woman whom he had loved in the beginning. Things had come full cycle to their conclusion. 

As he let go of the package, a sense of relief, not unlaced with forlornness at all that never was, nearly overwhelmed him. It was over. 

"Merry Christmas, Youji." 

He sprang around, for one wild moment wondering if, somehow, he had stepped back in time. But no, the face that greeted him was not hers. 

Leaning against the doorway, Schuldig's gaze met his own steadily. Maybe it was some trick of lighting, but the ice blue eyes seemed warmer tonight. Mesmerising fathomless blue. What did these eyes convey? Everything? Nothing? What's the difference? 

In a flash, the note that Omi wrote out for him just now clicked. "You are the one who removed my memories of that night." 

The German smiled lightly, and uncrossed his arms, then crossed them once more. "How did you guess?" 

"Intuition." 

Schuldig uncrossed his arms again, stuck his hands into his pockets, and entered the dingy office at a pronouncedly leisurely pace. "You'd have made it good as a PI," he said at last. "You have the feel for this kind of jobs." 

He shrugged. "No use looking back now." He had learnt to accept that—otherwise all the could-have-been's would have driven him crazy long ago. "Are you waiting for me to ask?" 

"Ask why I erased your memories?" Schuldig's lips quirked up in a queer smile. "Rather, I admit. So why aren't you?" 

"I'm not sure if I want to know the answer." He strolled over to the back of the office, where an electric kettle, among other odds and ends, was kept. "Want a drink? The tea leaves probably have mould by now, but the tinned stuff should be okay." 

"Coffee, then. It's cold out there." The orange-haired young man walked over as well, rubbing his hands for warmth from friction. 

Youji turned on the tap, waiting for the rust-filled water to flow out, then filled the kettle and set it to boil. "Hands like these don't seem to have ever known a day of work," he remarked. 

The other threw his head back and laughed emptily. "They know work alright. They've done most things that hands can do—when they had to." 

"They don't now." He set out two mugs after rinsing off the accumulated dust. 

"I refuse to work more than necessary. Exertion is troublesome." 

"Yet you took the trouble in my case." He pried open the coffee tin with a spoon handle and scooped out some for each mug. "Sometimes I wonder if my teammates are right." 

"About?" Schuldig raised an eyebrow quizzically. 

"Brainwashing." It was strange to the point of being fantastic, having a conversation of this nature with Weiß's enemy while waiting for coffee to be ready, but it seemed appropriate, too, in a way. High time that they stopped fighting pointlessly and communicate instead. 

"I didn't." Schuldig paused. "Do you believe me?" 

"Are you asking me to?" 

"No." 

"Then I'll decide some other time." 

"Fine by me." 

The kettle boiled. He poured into the mugs and stirred. "Don't expect high quality. We couldn't afford good coffee back then." 

"I've drunk worse." 

They sipped in silence. 

"Why did you fight? That first day," he asked after a long pause. "You had a reason; you were—" 

"Angry, I know." Blue eyes glanced at him cynically. "And you, you were on the verge of shutting down completely." 

The memory of those days came back to him dully, leaden and unreal. "The fight prevented that." 

"Unleashing all that you've been bottling up and directing at yourself, no?" Schuldig supplied. "Did about the same for me. So much so that what Crawford did seemed too much." 

"And why did _he_ do—whatever?" 

"Anger." The mindreader glanced at him again. "You four caused us a hell lot of trouble, you know. We were hiding from SS—and Weiß's kill attracted attention we could ill afford." 

"We seem more efficient when we blunder," he gibed. "When we _try_ to get you, you foil all our plans." 

As soon as he had finished speaking, Youji became aware of the uncomfortable atmosphere that suddenly closed in. Just now, they had been simply two people talking about each other's shared old times, but with the invocation of Weiß and Schwarz... it became Them vs. Us. 

Schuldig shrugged stiffly, evidently sensing the same change. "We try our best." 

He pulled back from the touchy subject. "So, that's the reason for Crawford's anger?" 

The mindreader nodded. "He hates it when things get chancy," he said softly. "Laid out orderly, with each step well-planned and well-executed—that's his style. I get thrills from unpredictability; he gets rattled. It's not easy to anger him, but security happens to be one of his red buttons." He walked over to the window, his coffee still in hand. "Sometimes I think he's the most cruel, out of us four," he continued without turning around. "He's got tremendous self-control, and he can hold his emotions in check until more pressing matters have been settled—then the dam opens. Some wise guy once said, 'Beware the fury of a patient man.' [1] Crawford's a perfect example for that." 

"And you?" 

"I?" Again came that queer, empty laugh. "I'm Schuldig." 

"What does it mean?" Schuldig had spoken it as though it was more than a mere name. 

"German. Guilty." The orange-haired young man continued to face the window. 

"Why would anyone call himself that?" Not that it was any of his business, but he wanted to ask all the same. Was it a show of irony? Defiance? Acceptance? Or what? 

"Why would anyone tattoo 'sin' on his arm?" Schuldig shot back, still not turning away from the window. 

"When—" He fell silent. If had received half as many injuries as he felt he had, three months ago, Schuldig would have had ample opportunity to see the tattoo. "Oh." 

"Crawford's different..." The mindreader murmured, wrenching the conversation out of the vein it had strayed into. "He's, I think, remorseless..." 

"Oh?" 

Schuldig shook out of the meditative musing with an almost audible start, then flashed the familiar smirk. "I'm convinced that I'll go to Hell; he doesn't believe he'll go anywhere. That's the main difference. And you? Do you believe?" 

"Heaven and Hell?" He considered it. "Sometimes." Other times he hoped so fervently for its non-existence that he started believing in that—by now, the queue of people waiting to clear their life debts with him was probably miles long, and he had many more to go. "I'd rather rot. I don't think I want to go to Hell—but there's a difference between that and actually not going." 

"Hence, the prosaic way out." Schuldig turned the handle on the windowpane and pushed. The rusted hinges gave in reluctantly, and he leaned out. "The snow stopped," he remarked to nobody, then added, "I wonder if anyone would notice should I pour the coffee down from here." 

"Get away from the window, then, before you do," he suggested placidly. 

"Oh?" 

"If you stay there long enough, you _will_ turn the mug over—and I don't think my coffee's that bad." 

There was a hint of real amusement in Schuldig's smile this time. "It's human nature, alright. When you hold a cup with an idea of pouring it, you want to do so." 

"When you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail," he grinned back. 

"When you have a knife in your hands, you look for things that may need cutting; when you level a gun at someone, you feel the urge to press the trigger." Lifting his mug, Schuldig finished the rest of the murky brown fluid. "And when you've wound wire around one's neck long enough—" 

"You long to yank the wire," he finished for the other wryly. "It _is_ human nature, that. No matter the instinctive revulsion against the deed, some part of you would _want_ to do it. Before, there may be growing tension, edginess, agitation, anticipation—" 

"And after it's done, sublime relief." Schuldig finished for him this time. "Mankind... it is really a most remarkably strange creature. Sensibility and the conscious go but skin deep; underneath, we are driven by the most primal feelings that defy rational descriptions." 

"In fact, had computers but a fraction of our bugs, we'd have tossed them out long ago." He touched his tattoo lightly through the layers of clothes. 

"'When you gonna learn'..." the German young man murmured. "Good question, that." 

"What happened that night?" 

"Nagi and I fetched you, then turned you over to Crawford. I don't think I've ever seen Crawford as angry as he was that night." Schuldig turned back to look at some spot on the ground, and his hair fell forward softly to obscure his face as he continued. "He effectively bottles up his feelings most of the time, but you, you were an outlet." 

"I'm honoured," he smiled wryly. 

Schuldig glanced at him, then looked away once more. "I had a choice, and I chose to stay out. You were a bloody wreck by the time I saw you again. The two of us waited until your friends went further out in their search for you, then returned you to your hotel." 

"And removed my recollections of that night." 

Thin shoulders shrugged. "I sympathised with Crawford's anger, and I want him to get that out of his system—but the extent to which he went was too much for my comfort." 

"So, you took the middle path out: you helped him as much as he required, then you turned around and lessened what I went through." 

Schuldig stuck his hands into his pockets and began walking to the office door. Youji accompanied him. "What other course was their available? Can't let a teammate down; I'm a member of Schwarz." 

"And I'm a member of Weiß." 

"I know." 

Side by side, they walked out to the lift. "What brought you here tonight?" 

"I want to see how you're doing." Schuldig pressed the button for the ground floor. "I couldn't get what had been done out of my mind." 

"For all that we're supposed to be enemies?" 

"We are." The flat assertion echoed as the aging lift groaned in descent. "But I have a degree of respect for worthy opponents." 

He allowed it to sink in. "Thanks." Did he mean it? He rather thought so. 

"You're welcome." Schuldig sounded the same way. 

  


~~~

  


Ken was pacing; he had been doing that for the last thirty minutes, and had covered every bit of the room by now. Aya's fidgeting with his book had taken just as long. Omi fiddled with Weiß's electronic equipment, unscrewing and screwing the same parts. On the table next to the couch stood a little timer that was ticking away placidly as the three of them waited. 

Suddenly, the ticking stopped, and the timer emitted a long, shrill wail. 

Omi jumped up. "Twelve o'clock. That's the latest we're giving Youji-kun. Who's calling?" 

"Me." Ken had already grabbed the only phone in the room, and now began dialling rapidly. "Youji? Is everything okay? ... Oh, alright..." Tension dissolved into relaxation in the room. "Fine, see you later." He replaced the phone and grinned with relief at the other two. "He's coming back now." 

"Did he say how long he'll take?" Aya closed his book. 

"Twenty minutes or more; the snow is making roads slippery—where are you going?" 

"To bed. You know he hates being fussed over." With that, Aya left the room. Ken and Omi exchanged a wry grin. 

"Having all three of us waiting up for him _is_ a little excessive," Omi remarked. "Is there anything worth watching on TV? I can bring some cocoa here." 

Ken switched on the television and began flipping channels. A few minutes later, Omi returned with hot cocoa. "How did Youji-kun sound, Ken-kun?" 

"A little muffled—at times like this I bet he wishes for a less showy car with a hood and air-con," Ken grinned. "But to answer less literally, he's all right. Almost back to the old Youji, I'll say." 

"That's good." Omi held one hand over his cup, warming his fingers with the rising steam. "I'm glad." 

"Yeah, me too." 

  


~~~

  


"Omi! What does dried white rose stand for?" 

The shop's residential Victorian flower language expert frowned for a moment. "Something along the lines of 'death preferable to loss of innocence', why?" 

"Ouch," Ken grimaced, then chuckled. "Some guy called to ask; seems as though his significant other sent him that, with no attached message." 

"Good luck with the reply," the younger boy's voice continued from the storeroom. "Better you than me." 

"Thanks for nothing." 

Youji half-filled a pail with water, grabbed a piece of rag, and made for the front of the shop. The snatches of conversation were no different from any other on a normal morning, yet, somehow, they seemed unreal... Last night, paying homage to the past and watching the falling snow over mugs of cheap coffee with someone who seemed neither friend nor foe (or perhaps both, which would amount to the same thing), he had felt intensely alive. But _here_, _now_... commonplace words, unaffected laughter, everyday mundane routine... Set against the vivid past with snow swirling in the darkness, it was the present that seemed pale and distant. 

It was almost a culture shock to step into the sunny shop. 

"Ohayo! You—" Omi's eyes widened, "—ji—kun...?" 

Ken stared too. "Youji, you're actually going to take on manual labour—_without being asked_?" The soccer lover flopped into a chair, flinging a hand over his forehead. "Wa...ter... I feel faint..." 

"Oh no, you don't," Omi snickered. "Pass the pail, Youji-kun. Ken-kun needs water." 

"Oi!" 

He wrenched his attention away from the past with some effort. "Enough theatrics, okay? I want something to do." 

Ken continued to groan. "That's it! He has fallen—" 

"Boys _will_ be boys," a woman's voice drawled as its owner entered the shop. "Can you for once not present me with a page lifted from the asylum? For the sake of novelty, if nothing else." 

"Mission, Manx?" Ken exclaimed. "It's Christmas!" 

"If that's supposed to hold any significance, it doesn't," Persia's secretary said dryly as she looked around. "Where's Aya?" 

"Here." Aya appeared, as per his habit, right on cue. "What's the mission?" 

"Schwarz; they've been sighted—" Manx trailed off as the pail slipped from numb fingers and landed with a loud crash. He righted it immediately, although a fair amount had splashed out. 

As he bent down to clean up the puddle, he was conscious of the glances his teammates exchanged. 

"We refuse," Aya said quietly, in a tone that brooked no argument. 

"'We'?" Manx's eyebrows rose. 

"That's right," Ken chipped in. Omi nodded his assent, meeting her gaze squarely. 

Youji felt Manx's eyes on him, but she said nothing and neither did he. 

Finally, Manx sighed. "Fine. Is there any reason that I can offer Persia?" 

"Tell him that we aren't ready, that we have yet to recover from our last encounter, that we are mentally unprepared, or psychologically, or whatever." There was little hesitation in Omi's reply. 

A half-sad, half-fond smile crossed Manx's face unexpectedly, then she turned to leave. "You can be very forceful when you set your mind to it, Bombay..." came the murmur as the young woman herself walked out. "So, blood _would_ tell." 

The four of them stared at one another for one long awkward moment, then Ken shrugged. "Well, that's that. Shall we go back to work?" Individual customers were few during these days, but they had had several large orders to work on, the last of which was to be delivered today, and had yet to be completed. 

Towards noon, only Aya and Omi were still working on the last of the arrangements, while Ken and himself began transferring completed ones to the van reserved for big deliveries like this. "Sometimes I wonder why we actually bother," his teammate muttered. 

"We never make any profit, do we?" he replied wryly. 

"No, I mean, come on, we're assassins! This is—" 

"Pointless, I know." 

Ken sighed. "Yeah, I'm just... edgy." 

Omi had just finished the last arrangement when they entered the shop again. "Okay, we're done!" the younger boy called cheerfully. "Who's delivering?" 

"I will," he offered. 

"And me," Aya said right after him. They usually required two for large deliveries anyway. 

"Alright, you know the address?" 

"I have it," Aya replied shortly as they walked out of the shop together. 

He said nothing. He had met Aya's eyes just now; it was time, those violet orbs promised, that they had a talk. 

  


~~~

  


"_'La vie est vaine./Un peu d'amour,/Un peu de haine,/Et puis bonjour./La vie est brève./Un peu d'espoir,/Un peu de rêve,/Et puis bonsoir.'_" [2] Schuldig quoted softly under his breath as he gazed at the scenery outside the window. The snow looked rather nice, actually. 

Damn, he was getting sentimental again. 

But... it felt comfortable, not casing everything in the harshest cynical light. 

"Did you say something, Schuldig?" 

"Not in your language, Nagi." He half-turned to see the Japanese kid in the doorway of the computer room. "What do you think of this pretty picture?" He jerked a thumb at the window. 

Nagi's face was carefully expressionless as he came over. What was he thinking of? Schuldig wondered. 

For a moment, an image flared up in his mind, of a young girl standing in the middle of a large meadow, smiling delightedly at the white flower petals that danced in the wind—then it was gone, shut away completely in the guarded mind of an inscrutably silent young man. 

"It's lovely," Nagi said in a tone that would have been equally appropriate had he said 'it's plain' or 'it's ridiculous' instead. 

"You miss her." 

Nagi's jaw tightened infinitesimally. "Are you going to tell me that love is for children and to grow up?" 

"Don't put words into my mouth, kid. I do think that love is for children—but that category won't leave too many people out." 

"Including you?" 

He did not reply to that. "You know something, Nagi? If one can remain a child, one'd be happy; if one can grow up completely, one'd be content too—but few ever do. Always there would be something holding you back, preventing you from casting the remnants of childhood away completely, from severing the last of the ties... Most people are caught in that torturous nowhere in between, missing the past, which means that they can't bear to forget, but unable to go back—because they've seen too much, known too much." 

"Knowledge, once gained, cannot be returned..." the kid murmured, his hand clutching the window grill so tightly that the knuckles were white. "Eden is only for the innocent." 

"While we are a bunch of sinners who can't forget," he added, trying to smirk. 

"Nagi turned to look at him. "What's the matter, Schuldig? You don't usually wax philosophy like this." 

"Something I ate, probably." 

"Ha ha." Nagi did not sound amused. 

  


~~~

  


They had been sitting there in silence for a long time now, neither moving a muscle. Snow had begun accumulating on their coats. 

Youji dug out his box of cigarettes and lit one, inhaling the sickly intoxicating aroma. Aya was waiting, it seemed. No small talk to glide into—but then, the redhead had never been one for meandering conversation. 

"Youji, have you remembered anything of that night?" There was no hesitation once Aya opened his mouth. 

"No. What made you think so?" 

"You reacted strongly to the mission Manx brought." 

"No, my memories didn't come back... _and I know why._" 

"Yes?" Aya's voice was carefully neutral. 

Had it been either of his other two teammates, Youji was sure that he would have held back—but Aya, somehow, might understand. He breathed in deeply and took the plunge. "I met Schuldig last night." 

After a lapse of at least twenty seconds, Aya spoke. "Go on." 

"Oh hell," he muttered, not too sure himself what he was swearing about. "He wanted to talk, I think. He's the one who removed my memories of that time." 

"He told you that?" 

"I guessed." He looked up at the sky, but of course, there was nothing to see except snow, snow, and more snow. "You know, it _was_ incredible that I could not recall a single thing.. and some things in his note don't lend themselves to other explanations." 

"Ah, that note—" The redhead grimaced slightly. "I tore it up as soon as I read through it. Do you know where the passage was taken from?" 

"No, where?" 

"'A Midsummer Night's Dream'. It's a Shakespearean comedy." 

Youji winced at the dry reply. No wonder Aya saw red. 

"But enough of that. You two met and then talked?" 

He nodded slowly. "I don't think he meant any harm." 

"You are sure?" 

He wondered about that himself. The lit cigarette burnt up to where he was holding it, and he dropped the coffin nail with an oath. "Aya, do you think I've been brainwashed?" 

Aya did not reply for a long while—really, their entire conversation seemed to contain more silent pauses than actual speech—then shrugged. "I can't tell." 

"Neither can I." 

"Is that why you reacted to the mission?" 

"Sort of." He paused, trying to sort things into some semblance of order. "I'm not warming up to Schwarz as a team, I should think; it's just him... I don't know what to think." When Aya made no comment, he continued. "What's their goal? I don't understand them. What do they hope to achieve from what they are doing? If only I know their motivation, I can judge for myself exactly where I stand—but I don't _know_!" 

Suddenly Aya was in front of him, pressing him to sit down by his shoulders—he had started to rise without knowing it—and keeping him there. "Get a grip on, Youji." 

He blinked, then the maddening tension seeped out of him. "I'm fine now, Aya. Thanks." 

Quietly concerned eyes studied him a moment longer, then their owner nodded, and resumed his seat. "So." 

"I won't betray Weiß, Aya." 

"No, I don't think you will." 

They continued sitting in silence. He lit another cigarette. "When do we have to get back? Flower deliveries don't usually take this long." 

"When you feel like it," came the cool reply. "Those two aren't blind." 

"In that case, let's stay a while longer." He took a puff. "You know what, Aya? Something just occurred to me: the four of us know one another well enough to depend on the rest for our lives, but for all that, we know practically nothing about one another's past." 

"You know I have a sister." 

"Only because you yell her name all the time—that, and Takatori-shine." He chuckled. "And you know about Asuka—because I scream her name too, and Neu was around. Beyond that... how were we once like? What opened the door into the underworld? How did each one of us end up where we are: killers with no past or future or even plain daylight?" 

"All that is past. What good does it do to dig it up again?" The voice was unemotional; yet, there was an undercurrent of pain... 

"I'd like to have known Ran," he said thoughtfully. "You are, I think, of a gentle nature..." 

"I was." Aya laid emphasis on the past tense. "Vengeance killed Ran." 

"If it did, I doubt you'd have told Sakura-san that name." He watched as the wispy smoke rose, swirling, twisting... "The life you left behind, what was it like?" 

"Normal." Amethysts softened momentarily, "and happy—until Takatori destroyed everything." His friend shook his head, as though trying to dispel the memories. "You?" 

"Your kind of life is what I envied last time, actually. I was on the streets pretty much as soon as I remembered; used to throw rocks and whatever else that happened to be handy at the kids going to and from school when I was young—because I never had that chance." 

"When I was in school, I hated it. The insane competition, the tense atmosphere..." Aya let out a soft sigh. "I guess nothing looks as good close up as it does from afar." 

"Guess so, but back then I envied all the same: school, work, marriage, family—it's like a through train: once you board it, your future's assured... I had to fight every step of the way." 

"To survive?" 

"Not quite that drastic, no." Memories from those days skidded forth incoherently, presenting not so much an image as an atmosphere... Back then, he hated winter—because it was cold, both literally and figuratively. Winter was a season for a family to cuddle by the stove together... but a street kid did not have that luxury. "Getting by isn't too hard after a while—but getting up was. How easy do you think it is to land a job when you've had no formal education, no qualifications, no experience, and no connections? I didn't even have a birth certificate." Of course, that made things much more convenient for Omi when he joined Weiß—there was practically nothing to delete. "Sure, there were easy ways that _seemed_ to lead out—but in fact simply sucked one deeper into the mess of crooks. I was determined to go straight." 

And ended up an assassin. Brilliant, Youji. 

"I met Asuka by chance about four years back, and we hit it off fairly well, two flat broke kids trying to make it in a big city. Playing detectives was her idea." It had been damned hard to begin with, but they scraped by somehow, and bit by bit, things had seemed to pick up... until that shot—which landed him from heaven to hell. "Kritiker contacted me after she supposedly died; seems as though we've made a name for ourselves for efficiency, or something like that. And so," he fingered his watch, "after trying all my life to rise above the streets, I plunged headlong into its darkest undergrounds." 

Silence ensued. He finished the cigarette and grinded the stub under his heel. 

Aya stirred finally. "I'm fortunate by comparison, I guess," he said slowly. "But still, none of us can compare ourselves with the normal people out there." His gaze fell softly on an old couple in the distance, strolling together, not even holding hands—yet somehow presenting a much more loving sight than the cloyingly romantic young ones that unfailingly adorn every landscape. "No one to kill, no one after them, safe and well..." 

"Yet," he smiled crookedly, "people who see us sitting here would surely say, 'here are two young men without a care in the world'." 

"Appearances can be deceiving," Aya murmured. "_'Fair is foul, and foul is fair.'_" [3] 

"A quotation?" 

"Yes." 

For a while now, the snow had stopped falling. A wind began to blow, and both of them shuddered automatically. Truly, they had been there for too long. 

"It's growing late, Aya. Want to go back now?" 

"Alright." 

As they walked back to the van, Youji thought again about the line Aya had quoted. 

Fair is foul, and foul is fair. 

He wondered which category Schuldig fell under. 

  


~~~

  


[1]: From John Dryden's 'Absalom and Achitophel', 1680. 

[2]: From 'Peu de chose' by Léon Montenaeken, translated roughly as 'Life is aimless/A little love/A little hate/And then good day/Life is short/A little hope/A little dreaming/And then good night'. Yes, I suck at translations. 

[3]: That's from Macbeth by Shakespeare, if you really want to know. Why did I have Aya quote the three weird sisters? ^^;; Your guess is as good as mine. 


	4. Part III

**Part III**

After hanging up his apron, Youji went up to his room, flopped onto the couch, and wondered what there was to do. When was the last time he went bar hopping? He just felt no interest for it now. The change had been so gradual: after that encounter with Schwarz last year, he took months to recover, and even after that, his teammates noted his whereabouts protectively. It was only recently that it struck him how his former pursuits no longer interested him. Even the girls in the flower shop seemed to have noticed the change in him, although he still teased them—when he remembered to, anyway. 

"Oi, Youji?" Someone knocked on the door. 

"Come in. Door's not locked." He looked up to see Ken poke his head in, a soccer ball under his arm. 

"The neighbourhood kids are having a match later. Do you want to come along to watch?" 

He actually considered it—something that the playboy, now fading away, would surely have scoffed at. "No. Thanks anyway." He had little interest in the game. 

The younger man took that good-naturedly. "Okay then. See you later." 

"Bye—and good luck for the game." 

After the soccer lover had left, he settled back onto the couch again, but the late afternoon sun had moved to his face, and he had to choose between putting on shades, drawing the curtains, or finding another position to laze in. As he sat up, a gentle wind stirred the curtains, reminding him that it _was_ a lovely day out there. 

"Going out, Youji-kun?" Omi called as he strolled downstairs. The blond boy was watering the flowers, while Aya did bookkeeping behind the counter, taking advantage of the momentary lull in business. 

"For a walk. I won't be long." 

They spared him the cautionary 'Take care' or 'Be careful', for which he was grateful, as he walked out into the sunlight. 

He had not done this for a long time, he noted, turning down into a quieter street. Assassinations, bars, women... for all too long he had led the life of a night creature. Youji turned his face towards the sun's gentle rays and sighed in contentment as it bathed him in soft warmth. It had been so long that he forgot that he missed this. 

"I find that hard to believe; you looked pretty tanned—used to, anyway." Schuldig remarked casually from the cool dark shade of a roadside tree. "And after hell knows how many months you've been cooped up indoors, Abyssinian is still paler than you are." 

"It appears to be a common trait in redheads," he replied carefully. What was Schuldig doing here? 

  


~~~

  


"I suppose you won't accept a 'just passing by'." His reply, though seemingly casual, was anything but that. He had long admitted that he was nothing if not an actor in real life. 

What _was_ he doing here? Good question, that, and one to which he had no answer. 

He was conscious of the wary gaze from the Weiß assassin, although he detected no downright hostility. And that, Schuldig decided, would do for now. 

"You read my mind?" The blond young man asked abruptly. 

Not bloody likely. He was hard put to figure out how he himself was feeling right now—the last thing he needed was further confusion from another's thoughts. But then again, what was the point in denying it? Few ever believed it—he had made too fine an art of interpreting body language. "So what if I was?" 

Youji shrugged. "Just asking." 

"And you aren't following that up with a demand for me to stay out of your mind?" He leaned back against the tree trunk, his arms crossed. 

"Would you have listened?" 

He laughed dryly. "Unlikely. Where are you going?" 

"Anywhere. Everywhere. I don't know." 

"Mind if I join you?" 

  


~~~

  


In the common-looking apartment that served as Schwarz's current abode, Crawford was putting away the last of his guns. He kept them fully loaded at all times, but he still checked them regularly. A self-acknowledged creature of routine, he had found that useful habits could save a man's life. Given the choice, he would leave nothing to chance. Control freak, Schuldig had labelled it. 

At the thought of the German mindreader, Crawford paused momentarily. Was that a vision? No, nothing so complete or clear. It was just a vague feeling, gone almost before it was there, and he could not even be sure what feeling it was. 

Crawford suppressed the urge to sigh—sure, there was no one to see him here, but cultivating the habit helped towards the omnipotent image he tried to present—and finished storing his firearms away. Sometimes he really hated his power. Telekinesis, or even mindreading, maybe, but precognition! The future was always vague, full of possibilities and apt to change at any moment in favour of any outcome due to any change, however minute, in any factor, from any number of random causes. He would much prefer something that was well-defined, not seeing glimpses of the possible future. 

Then again, none of the precogs he encountered had ever really seemed to prefer their power to all other abilities had they a choice. Crawford smiled thinly at that thought. Precogs tended to be people whose minds were inherently organised enough to make some sense of what they perceive—and most of them tended to be control freaks, too. 

But no power should ever be wasted in Crawford's dictionary, and so he had trained it, just as he trained his aim for firearms, his prowess in hand-to-hand combat, and everything else that would shift the odds in his favour. He always trained alone, too—while he usually left fighting to the other Schwarz members, direct confrontation was always a possibility, and if it came down to that, the less the opponent knew about him, the better. Underestimation could kill, and so could its opposite. 

Blood. Knife. White hair. 

The images flared up like a crazy kaleidoscope before they were whisked away into nothingness once more, leaving only the bittersweet tint of blood in his mind. Crawford grimaced inwardly. There was nothing unclear about _this_ vision: Farfarello was getting bored again. He hurried down the corridor and snatched open the door, only to find—as he had guessed—the straitjacket discarded on the floor. 

Damn. 

He struck the wall out of sheer, long pent-up frustration, and for several moments did not even register the pain. _How_ many times had he warned them not to attract undue attention? SS was still out there, and, to a less degree, Kritiker. Schwarz had few personal enemies, but it had no allies, either. _Why_ could they not heed him for their own safety? 

"Farfarello got away again?" Nagi slipped in, his face expressionless as always. 

Crawford nodded curtly, slowly unclenching his fist. "_Why_..." He asked no one in particular. 

"Not everyone views the world as rationally as you do, Crawford," Nagi said quietly before turning away, and his last words were heard from the other end of the corridor. "Sometimes, some people just don't care." 

This time, he sighed out aloud. He did not understand people, especially Farfarello. There had been times when the Irish madman seemed to _like_ staying in the straitjacket—but there was no predictable pattern. Schuldig used to take Farfarello out once in a while, which had kept the latter placid the rest of the time. These days... Schuldig no longer did that. 

Again came that hazy hint of some feeling, leaving behind nothing more than a faint sense of unease. He could not fathom it. 

But there had been _something_. 

That meant trouble. 

  


~~~

  


Through his shut eyelids, Youji could make out—faintly—threads of red against a background of mellow gold. Maybe the red came from the blood vessels in his eyelids, he decided, although he frankly did not care either way. There was nothing to do here, really—not that he minded. 

Strangely—or perhaps not so strangely—he did not feel uncomfortable here, alone with one he had tried to kill before and who had likewise returned the courtesy. The past months had given him plenty of time to avoid the issue, and now that the man himself had shown up in flesh again, he wasn't really surprised to discover that he no longer instinctively beheld the man as an enemy. 

"You aren't asleep, are you?" Schuldig's voice drifted by lazily from some distance away. 

"Of course not." 

"Just wondering; you haven't opened your eyes or stirred for a long time now." 

"Try glaring back at the sun and see how much you like it." 

"You have sunglasses with you." 

"If I'm going to get tanned to the shade of a cooked lobster, I'd rather be completely that colour than look like an inverted panda with ridiculous white patches." 

Schuldig responded with a light snort. "Oh, right. Then what are we doing here?" 

"Beats me." There had been hardly any discussion—or conversation, for that matter—at all. The two of them simply strolled along, then hailed a cab and named a scenic spot nearby at random. The place was relatively deserted, this being neither holiday nor weekend, but it was not company that they sought in the first place. 

Silence ensued for a while, a comfortable one. Youji stretched a little and then asked, "Where have you been?" 

"Since Christmas, you mean?" Cracking open his eyelids, he noted that Schuldig's posture had changed subtly. Wary relaxation seemed to be dominant over the subconscious ease of a moment ago. "SS was nipping a little too close to our heels, and Crawford had to pull us out of Japan in a hurry." There was a pause. "Do you hate me?" 

He sat up. "What?" 

"You heard me." 

He pondered on that, carefully avoiding eye contact and conscious of the fact that the Schwarz member was doing the same. The fight last year... the night he did not remember... the strained subsequent encounter... that now seemingly unreal Christmas Eve... Fighting was one matter, but conversations were another. "I don't think so." 

"Thanks." 

  


~~~

  


Ran had not been aware of how tense he had become over Youji's absence until the latter came back just before dinner and his shoulders sagged visibly in unconscious relaxation. The gesture only stayed for a moment before he noticed it and turned impassive once more, but he thought it more likely that Youji saw anyway. The former PI had an eye for details. 

The next moment, Ran mentally checked his assessment. What was wrong? These normally alert eyes had a distracted look to them, one that Youji seldom exhibited. 

"Yo, I'm back," the blond young man muttered absently, walking past the kitchen presumably to his own room down the corridor. 

"Have you eaten?" Ran put a dish into the microwave and set the timer. 

"No." 

"Dinner's in ten minutes." 

"Sure." Youji turned to leave. 

Ran blocked him. He was, as a rule, averse to taking this kind of initiative, but Youji was too adroit when it came to sidestepping more subtle attempts if the latter wanted to. "What happened, Youji?" 

For the first time since he stepped into Weiß's shared apartment, Youji actually seemed to see him. Ran held the gaze deliberately. A calm look, as he knew from experience, could be even more effective than any questioning one. 

His friend shifted uncomfortably. "I don't want to talk about it, alright? I can handle it." 

At times like this, Ran hated his own lack of conversation skills. Even people who _wanted_ to talk found it difficult to open up to him, and when they did not want to... It was like slamming into a concrete wall. He could know very well that the other party was lying, but he would still have no idea how to get around the outright denial and offer his support. Ken had the same problem at times, but while that soccer lover tended to push on anyway when he was unsure of how to go on, Ran would generally clam up. Darn. "Are you sure?" 

Youji sighed. "No offence meant, man, but leave me alone, okay? There are some things that I've to sort out myself." 

Ran would have pressed further had he known how to, but he did not—and Youji was perfectly aware of that. "Sorry, Aya. Thanks." Before Ran could stop him again, the older assassin had slipped by him into his own room and shut the door. 

Turning away, Ran brushed one hand through his hair wryly. An abrupt movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. "Ken?" 

The younger man grinned as he stepped out from the back staircase. "That obvious, am I?" 

"Omi would hardly leave his computer before you do," Ran shrugged. "How's the research?" 

"Still too early to tell." Ken pulled on a mitt and began helping him ferry dishes to the dining table. "I _want_ to get at them, damn it!" 

"We all do." Ran kept an eye on the bowl of soup in his friend's hands. "Schwarz has a lot to answer for." 

Ken nodded tersely, then changed the topic. "When are we going to tell him? Youji, I mean." 

"I don't think we should yet." 

"But eventually, we'll have to." Ken went over to the sink to rinse the chopsticks. "We simply can't do it on our own. It's his business, too—more than it's ours, actually." The chopsticks made a loud noise as he scrubbed them roughly. Ran did not have to ask to know that they were probably remembering the same thing. 

"He will get back on his feet." That was one of the few things he felt sure about in this whole damned business. "We just have to make sure that we are ready when he is." 

"And when is that?" Ken demanded, frustrated. "I _hate_ this waiting!" 

"Is there anything else for us to do?" Ran kept his voice quiet. Youji's room was not too far away, and while the blond usually valued his privacy enough not to eavesdrop on others, his behaviour of late had been unpredictable. 

Ken shrugged tiredly, and turned off the tap. "I know, but knowing doesn't help, does it?" 

"Seldom," he agreed, setting the table. "Can you call Omi up? I'll get Youji." 

"I'm here." The youngest Weiß assassin appeared on cue at the doorway. The grin he gave was weary, but a spark of excitement danced in those blue eyes. 

"You found something?" Ken brightened. 

Omi gave a cautious nod. "This lead is nearly four months old, though, and in another country. I _think_ it's them; closer than anything else dug up so far, at any rate." 

"But not anywhere close by?" Ken pressed. It occurred to Ran that Siberian looked like a predator at that moment: tense, eager, eyes bright with excitement, body wound tightly, ready to pounce at a moment's notice— Then he shook the imagery aside; that was neither here nor there. 

The younger boy grimaced. "It's the best lead I've had so far—and probably the only one I can depend upon, too. They cover their trail _very_ well. I'm starting to believe that Kritiker's agent last sighted them out of sheer luck." 

Though he had expected that, Ran still felt a twinge of disappointment at Omi's words. Sure, he should have known—after all, he knew enough of Omi's work habits to know that when the latter was closing in on what he sought, he could forgo food for days at one go. That the younger assassin remembered about dinner—in time—was enough to show that the trail was cold. All the same, like Ken, he disliked waiting a great deal. Waiting meant that the deed was being put off until the future, that things were still prone to change, that... Ran had had enough of suspense and surprises. He, too, wanted to get it over and done with. 

He realised with a start that his fists had started clenching again, and relaxed the grip forcibly. "I'll get Youji." Saying so, he walked out of the kitchen. 

  


~~~

  


Frustration. Annoyance. Rising anger on both sides. 

"What the hell? I pull my weight in missions, don't I? And you guys haven't been stopping me from taking part for ages, why now?" 

"Take part in missions, yes, but not as bait!" 

"I can handle it! I _have_ recovered, or haven't you noticed?" 

"This isn't necessary! I've done decoy more often than you have, I've the experience!" 

"So basically I'm still to be mothered around and kept away from anything risky? Do I have a handle-with-care sign somewhere?" 

"Everything in our job has its risks." 

"Yeah, but everyone takes the blunt of it some time, everyone except me. I don't need to be handled with kid gloves!" 

"Youji-kun, Aya-kun—" 

Schuldig tuned out. He would never have expected the icy Abyssinian to be engaged in a shouting match. Sure, that kid had a protective streak at least a mile wide, but Schuldig didn't expect it to be so _loud_. 

Abruptly, the commotion inside Koneko died down. Curious, the German perked up his ears once more. 

The quiet inside was punctured by a long, tired sigh. "Is that it? I can't be depended upon, can I?" 

Schuldig grinned to himself. The thought _had_ occurred to Youji—that much he could glimpse from the projected feelings alone—but now the Weiß assassin was simply using it as extra leverage on his teammates' guilt. Considering the blatant nurse-maiding Schuldig had seen for himself, he thought they deserved it. 

The soft words practically echoed in the ensuing silence. With another drawn-out sigh, Youji turned away. "Sorry, guys; didn't mean to yell." Slow steps dragged up the stairs of the basement, leaving behind another awkward silence which the mindreader did not bother to eavesdrop on—he was already leaving, melting into the dark night and chuckling to himself as he went. The conclusion was foregone. Youji certainly laid it on thick. 

  


~~~

  


The faint silver light rays descended between lazily undulating curtains to meet the single, intensely focused golden eye, and the madman smiled. He liked moonlight. Some would have assumed that killers felt comfortable only in darkness, but not for him. He wanted light to be able to see his handiwork, and daylight was too... bright. It dazzled and blinded—in contrast, moonlight was cold and apathetic, just what he wanted. 

He had sought blood just now—the bloodstained daggers now lay where he had placed them lovingly, where they caught the moon's reflection best—and now he was happy. He was easily satisfied, actually; if only Crawford would see it that way. It was not as though he really endangered them, was it? Crawford worried too much. Even when Crawford did go for his kind of entertainment—and that happened only once—he took enough precautions to make Farfarello wonder if he was stalling before they got down to the fun. 

Memories of that night surfaced, and Farfarello smiled again. Oh yes, that had been enjoyable. He would like to play with the Weiß kitten some time. 

Soft footsteps outside—literally outside—informed him of his teammate's return. Schuldig, of course. No one else _liked_ using the living room's window. This was Schwarz's own safe house, which explained why the mindreader had been lax about concealing his footsteps—maybe Farfarello could get Crawford's attention on that and off his own back. 

Farfarello was about to go back to his own contemplation of the past when something fleeted across his mind, making him pause in curiosity. He never bothered shielding here since everybody else did, but it looked as though someone's mental shields were wavering. Crawford as a possibility he dismissed out of hand, and considered Nagi for a while before deciding against that, too. The mental pattern reminded him of nothing like the silent boy. 

That left—the mindreader himself? 

Farfarello was beginning to wonder if he _had_ gone insane after all—like everyone else persisted in believing—when more random thoughts flared up, dismissing all doubt: that was Schuldig all right, letting thoughts through his cracking shields. 

_Schuldig, you're getting careless._

His own thoughts, Farfarello knew, were safe enough from Schuldig unless the latter really probed him, which was why he did not bother shielding while thinking that. The German had once tried to give some kind of explanation, about his mental pattern being so different from that of others that it was like being on a different wavelength altogether: it could be just _there_, but unless mindreaders tuned in specifically, they wouldn't hear it. 

He might have considered telling the mindreader that the latter was slipping, if not for something, something he had glimpsed in the other's thoughts. 

Farfarello chuckled. It seemed that although God never answered prayers, Satan certainly did. 

  


~~~

  


Familiar adrenaline pumped through him as he crouched, waiting for the rest. This mission required Weiß to obtain some incriminating documents, and his job was to provide distraction while the rest get the stuff. 

Yes, _his_ job—after enough arguments and theatrics to make him wrinkle his nose just remembering it. 

But he wanted it, or maybe it was need, he wasn't sure. The taste of danger, of actually _doing_ something, of being a part of his team, instead of... never mind. He would not think about that afternoon. He had to prove that he was still Balinese, to himself. 

"Balinese," the transmitter in his earring activated. "Bombay, in place." 

"Gotcha. Out." A few minutes later Aya and then Ken added their own voices. They were all in place. Youji activated his speaker. "Balinese. Everyone ready?" 

"Ready when you are." Ken. 

"Yes." Omi. 

There was a pause before Aya gave his reply, his voice obviously reluctant. "Yes." 

That was all he had been waiting for. Without further ado, Youji set off the bombs he had scattered on this floor and the few above. As fire and smoke alarms began wailing, he moved, letting the security cameras catch mere glimpses of him—he _wanted_ the guards here, but without letting them know for sure that he was alone. 

Curt, tense snippets of conversation continued between his teammates in his ears as the three of them took advantage of the confusion to slip in or charge in—depending on the individual style—from their respective hiding places. Meanwhile, he waited, feeling more intensely alive than he had felt for months. The first wave of guards reached him just as Omi reported that they had located the office the documents were kept in. "There are still a few guards hanging around." 

"And that's all you'll see. Out." He would keep the rest of them entertained. With as little killing as possible, he hoped. 

When the second wave came—the first lay unconscious on the floor by then—he took off, thanking the reasonably narrow corridors that restricted the number of pursuers in direct line of sight of his bare back. He didn't come to massacre, after all; all he needed to do was to distract the majority of the security forces long enough for his friends to get what they were after. 

Next corridor—left turn, now right— 

A guard blocked his path up in front. Youji gritted his teeth. The man's head literally went rolling before the gun had even been lifted. 

Another turn—just there—and he would be at the staircase to head downwards. He was getting a little winded, but he pressed on; he had pushed his body way further than this before. 

Someone grabbed his arm just as he reached the stairs. 

He twisted reflexively, elbowing behind and leaping forth the moment the attacker loosened his grip, putting at least two metres between them. 

Intense blue eyes met his gaze, dark in the semi-gloom. "It's me." 

"Schul—what are you _doing_ here?" Running steps were approaching. They had no time to dally. 

"Not here. Come." 

But the German was leading the way _up_— 

"Quick!" Schuldig looked ready to bodily drag him up. 

Youji made up his mind, although he wasn't sure why he would trust this man. "Lead on." 

Five minutes later found them gazing at the night cityscape from the top floor, while cries of pain, gunshots, and shrieks of fear echoed faintly from opened windows some floors below. 

Youji dug into his pocket for his cigarettes and offered one to the mindreader. "So, is that who I think it is?" 

"If you mean Farfarello, you're right." Schuldig declined the coffin nail. "I'm not entirely sure how he found out about your mission tonight, but he did. Anyway, I only discovered that he's around when I got here—he was waiting for you two floors down." 

"So you dragged me up here instead? What if the guards came up?" He held a cigarette, though he did not light it. Just doing something this familiar made him feel more anchored. 

"One, I don't think they will—the lifts ceased function the moment alarms started, so the only way out is via the stairs, and naturally, who'd escape down a dead alley? Two, that's Farfarello down there. I honestly doubt if there's anyone in one piece still." 

He grimaced, remembering past examples of Farfarello's entertainments that he had witnessed. "And why are you here?" 

"I'm not sure," Schuldig replied slowly, then grinned. "Before you ask, yes, I was eavesdropping on your mission briefing last night. Nice act, by the way." 

He was unsure whether that was a compliment, but decided to assume the best. What unsettled him more was Schuldig's presence here. "Why would you bother?" 

The German held up his hands. "Whoa there, spare me that question, okay?" 

Youji nodded, and decided that he really needed a smoke now. "Whatever." They were both sidestepping the same issue here, it seemed, but what _was_ the issue? He wasn't any readier than Schuldig to answer that. "Thanks." He lit the cigarette and took a long drag. 

"Leaving now? 'Cos I am." Schuldig flexed his fingers idly as he said so, and straightened his lanky frame. "Someone has to calm Farfarello down before he demolishes this side of the city. Ja." With that, the orange-haired young man launched himself out of the window. 

Youji stared for a moment, then shrugged. The building was seventy-five storeys high, but this was Schuldig. 

"Balinese?" Aya's voice spoke suddenly from his earpiece. "Reply." 

Youji activated his speaker. "Balinese reporting. Alive and intact as promised, kids. Where are you? I'll meet you downstairs." 

"Sure you don't want us to come up?" Omi's voice sounded concerned. 

Youji made an effort to sound nonchalant. "Sure, chibi." 

"Oi!" Omi protested exaggeratedly. 

He laughed—but the laugh caught in his throat half way, and died even as he froze in his tracks. 

"Balinese, are you okay?" 

Youji privately thought that the direst danger he was in right now was that he might throw up all over his mission gear—he had been descending the stairs while talking, and right now he was staring at the floor where Farfarello had been waiting. 

"Balinese?" Ken asked. 

He continued staring. There was something fatally attractive about the scene of a catastrophe, that nailed his gaze even as every sensible fibre yelled at him to look away. The slowly dripping blood, the utter silence unbroken by the smallest sound that would show life, the stifling thick, all-enveloping smell, the forever open frightened dead eyes and mouths gaping in soundless screams... The very horror made it impossible for him to break his gaze. 

"Youji!" Aya this time. "Reply!" 

He wrenched himself away at last, and bolted down the stairs. Only when he had placed five floors of stairs between the massacre and himself could he bear to reply, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat. "Sorry, guys. I was... distracted." 

"Youji-kun, are you all right there?" Omi asked sharply. 

"Yeah... give me a moment, okay? I'll meet you guys at the car." 

"Are you sure? If you're being cornered—" 

"I'd have enough sense to let you know." Despite—or perhaps because of—everything, he felt like laughing, hysterically. Being cornered by guards was simply the last thing he needed to worry about. "I'm coming down." 

Climbing down seventy-plus floors was no joke, even for assassins, but it gave him enough time to calm down—or at least look it—before he finally pushed open the door at the bottom, and felt the blast of fresh night air. 

Arms caught him. "What—" 

"No, don't ask." He managed a grin, turning his head slightly to see that it was Ken. "Go now?" 

"Just a moment; Aya-kun went to get the car." Omi replied, light fingers running down his body carefully. "He didn't trust you to be able to walk to where it's parked. Did you get injured?" 

"Not really." 

"Then why—" Ken began, then shut up. Youji did not need to look up to know that Omi had given the soccer lover a warning look. 

It seemed like forever before Aya showed up with the car and they all climbed in, Omi in the front seat while Ken and himself took the back. 

The brunet handed him a water bottle as the car started off. "Drink, will you? If you feel half as bad as you look, we should drive straight to the hospital." 

He tried to laugh, but it came out like a croak, and a pathetic one at that. "That ghastly?" 

"Afraid so." 

"Hn." His stomach continued moving uneasily, warning him that he had better seek some sink or toilet—fast. 

That ended the conversation. 

When they finally got back to Koneko, he was out of the car and half way up the stairs almost before Aya even turned off the engines. He was conscious of three pairs of eyes on his back; he wasn't caring for now. His legs felt weak, though, and the dizziness in his skull was rapidly upgrading itself to nausea. Maybe Aya was right and he wasn't ready for this kind of mission yet. But to be honest, since when was running unexpectedly into supposed enemies part of the deal? 

He made it to the toilet and promptly threw up everything he had eaten for the past two days, his stomach continued to heave long after it had been emptied. 

  


~~~

  


Ran did not look up as Youji staggered out of the car; he could see the latter's retreating figure perfectly well in the review mirror—and besides, he did not want to see the latter's condition anyway. He should have stood firm when Youji wanted to go on this job. 

"Aya-kun?" Omi asked tentatively, releasing the seatbelt. 

"Go on first. I want to stay here for a while." 

The two younger members of Weiß understood, it seemed, for they left quietly then without further questions. Ran let out a sigh as they disappeared into the shop, and leaned back into his seat tiredly. 

Youji had sounded unsettled on the speaker just now, but the sight that greeted Ran when he drove the car up had been worse. The older assassin did not seem to be in much physical pain, but his expression... Almost empty, devoid of feelings—it unnerved him, that. 

He should never have let Youji onto the mission. 

What _had_ taken place? All they knew was that the offices they stormed were hardly guarded when they got there, both their entrance and exit practically unnoticed by the security the place was famous for. Even at that time, it occurred to him that Youji might be doing his job as decoy too well—but there did not seem to be any serious injury anywhere—what _happened_? 

It was his fault; he should have stopped Youji. 

Ran realised that his thoughts were taking a downward spiral, and stopped the train with effort. Attractive as stewing in guilt might appear now, it got no one anywhere. He got out of the car and into Weiß's shared apartment via the back stairs. The stairs from the flower shop provided a more direct route, but he just did not want to use those. Somehow, if he never entered the site of his daytime profession in his assassin gear, he could keep the two separated in his mind. Pointless, of course—deep down, he _knew_ that the flower shop was only a guise and he could never get away from the fact that he was an assassin—but it was one of the few indulgences he allowed himself. 

Ken and Omi were both in the living room when he entered the apartment. The former pushed a mug of coffee across the low table. "He's still in the toilet." 

Ran nodded. There was no need to ask whom Ken was referring to. He changed out of his assassin attire, then returned to the living room again. One of the two had switched on the television, currently showing some crap piece of soap opera—as though anything else could be expected at this hour. Ran sat down and glanced at the TV occasionally between long gazes in the toilet's direction as he nursed his coffee; Omi did not even bother with the pretence of watching the show. 

After a while, when the toilet door showed no sign of being opened any time soon, Ken picked up the remote control and began flipping channels. "What the hell happened?" 

No one had the answer, but something on the screen caught Ran's attention. Something that reminded him uncomfortably of any of the many deaths Weiß had caused. "Ken, back to the previous channel. No, further back. Yes." 

"News channel? But why—" Ken trailed off as the reporter on screen faded away, replaced by a close-in shot of the place. "Wha—" 

"Look at the caption, Ken-kun!" Omi cut him off. 

Ran already had. This was the building they had been in just now. The particular floor in question had been in the general vicinity of their teammate. 

The sight that graced the screen appeared to have taken more than a few pages from hell. Ran stifled an instinctive shudder as his eyes followed the camera almost helplessly, taking in every gory detail. 

"Holy _shit_," he heard Ken mutter, his voice subdued in the sudden hush. "That's a goddamned slaughterhouse." 

Ran could not help but agree. He said nothing. 

Behind them, the door opened. None of them turned or looked up—they could not bear to. Ran knew himself well enough to know how his expression would be. 

The oldest assassin of Weiß walked in and slouched into the sofa next to Ran. "If you aren't going to drink that, can I have it?" His voice was almost dead, the kind of emptiness that came after an emotional overload. 

Ran put the untouched drink down. "Sure." He sounded unnatural, but so did everything else here. Couldn't someone break this deafening tension? Across, Ken looked ready to break something. But none of them spoke. 

A pale hand—not as bloodless as his own, but far paler than he once would have imagined possible for Youji—picked up the remote control and switched off the TV. "Go ahead, guys. What do you want to ask?" 

Still no one spoke. 

Finally, it was Youji himself who picked up the reins of the conversation again. "I guess you'd want to know what happened." 

"How, rather." Omi's words were restrained. "We saw the 'what' part on TV." 

"I figured." Youji slouched forward as he spoke, meeting the coffee mug halfway almost idly. "But it didn't go the way you guys probably think it did." 

"So what _did_ happen?" Ken demanded with a hint of nervous impatience in his voice. 

"Farfarello." 

Ran started and Omi tensed, but it was Ken who exclaimed, leaping to his feet, "_Schwarz_?" 

"How did he know we'd be there?" Omi muttered to no one in particular. 

Youji apparently found the colour of coffee fascinating. "I saw him before he saw me; I... hid." 

"Then?" 

"I don't know how he left the place, but I stayed put long after the cries had died down. While getting downstairs, I saw the same things that you guys saw." Youji looked up with haunted eyes. "If he met me instead, all those guards wouldn't have..." He left it hanging. 

"Hellfire, so _that's_ why you looked that bad just now." Ken walked over and laid a hand awkwardly on Youji's shoulder. "Try not to dwell on it, okay? Maybe you're partially responsible, but it's not as though any of us haven't hurt any innocent bystanders before." 

"Yeah, but the sheer number..." Youji sighed and shook his head slightly as though to dislodge the bloodstained memories from the forefront of his mind before looking up with a wan smile. "Thanks." 

Ken looked even more awkward, and no surprise—for all his light-hearted act, Youji revealed his true feelings about as often as Ran himself did. "Ah, anytime." He looked up when the youngest member of Weiß got to his feet. "Where are you going, Omi? There's no school tomorrow, is there?" 

"Mission report," Omi threw back over his shoulders, a fine crease marring his smooth forehead. "You guys had better rest too; who's on the first shift?" 

"Me," Ken sighed. "Good night." 

With the retreat of the two younger assassins, Ran found himself alone with Youji. "What do you want to know, Aya? Go ahead and ask." 

"Were you telling the whole truth?" 

"I wasn't lying." 

The two were different; they both knew that. "You held something back." 

Jaded green eyes met his own. "Please, Aya. Don't ask." 

Ran hesitated, then nodded slowly. "I hope you know what you're doing." 

"I hope so too." 

  


~~~

  


In one of his more whimsical moods, Schuldig had decided that he hated sunsets. Beautiful, yes, but too brief. He did not need to be reminded that good things never last. 

But he had strolled out late in the afternoon, so he might as well look at one. 

Schuldig found himself arriving at the same spot where he had spent that strange afternoon with Youji over a week ago, and nearly groaned. He was growing obsessed, no doubt about that. Fool. Just what could he be thinkin—wait a moment. 

Unless he was conjuring the image up for himself, a lanky young man stood a distance away, silhouetted against the setting sun, which made it impossible to make out his features. 

"Youji?" he called tentatively. 

The Weiß member turned, his face a mess of light and shadows. "I was wondering if you'd show up some time." His tone was almost casual. 

"You come often?" 

"When I'm free." 

A thought struck Schuldig as they gazed across at each other. It had never occurred to him before, but for some reason, it did not surprise him, either. 

But was it _possible_? 

He had no answer to that. Then again, he had gotten rather good at avoiding this, hadn't he? 

Youji sat down on the grass, face turned towards the sun. Schuldig strolled over slowly before dropping down to the ground as well, far enough to feel comfortable and close enough that he did not have to raise his voice. "I didn't think you'd be the kind to enjoy this." 

The blond young man smiled wryly. "It's a little over-used in romantic scenes, yeah. I haven't really seen the sun set for ages, though, so why not?" From the corner of his eye, Schuldig could see Youji's hand plucking a blade of grass absently. "I haven't seen a real sunrise for ages, too. Asuka used to drag me up at unholy hours to catch it. She liked the morning's vibrancy." 

Dawn did tend to have that energising effect on most people. And dusk? No one felt vitalised by looking at the sinking sun. The reddest glow in its last moment—just before it whisks out of sight. Were people not the same way? "Sunrise is for optimists." 

"And sunsets?" 

"Sentimental fools." It came out harsher than he expected. 

Youji sighed. "All too true, I guess. What brought you here?" 

"Not the view, I can assure you." 

Emerald eyes gazed into his own directly. He nearly flinched, but stopped the instinctive gesture in time. "Really?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"I don't think you're the complete bastard you like to appear." 

He tried to smirk, but the half quirk hardly qualified. "Maybe, but don't sprain your arm patting yourself on the back for noticing it—I usually put up a more convincing act than this." 

"Why?" The former self-proclaimed playboy paused. "Not, I suppose, that I'm in a position to ask." 

"You aren't," he agreed. "But who doesn't wear a mask?" 

"Point taken." Youji lit a cigarette. "By the way, do you smoke?" 

"Used to. Crawford got me to stop when I joined Schwarz." He almost smiled at that memory. Almost. Crawford probably had no other way to express his concern. Of course, that guy _had_ to be a control freak about it. "I think I could have kicked the habit by myself, but he kept me in Farfarello's straitjacket for three weeks." 

Youji blinked. "And you let him?" 

Schuldig debated between a prosaic reply and something that came closer to why he actually gave way to his friend's disguised attention. He chose the sensible course. "He enlisted Nagi's help; enough said." 

Youji nodded, then suddenly laughed out aloud. 

Schuldig cocked an eyebrow at the other young man. 

"Sorry." Youji was still chuckling. "I was trying to visualise you in a straitjacket." 

He decided that he really did not want the details; Youji's sense of humour could be warped at times. "Didn't your teammates ever tell you to stop?" 

"They gave up." The sun's dying rays lit upon Youji's blond hair, making it appear to be almost the same shade as his own. "I think that was when I told them that ten to one, I'd be killed long before smoking's detrimental effects really affect my performance anyway." 

Schuldig nodded slowly. "That's the gist of the difference, isn't it? Schwarz expects to survive; Weiß doesn't." 

Youji stared ahead almost dreamily. The glow of the sun had long mellowed enough to look at it directly. "We're Kritiker's pawns," he said softly. "We're like horses wearing blinkers, you know. They keep us in the dark so that we'd take risks without hesitation, without actually knowing what kind of cesspools we are getting into. Of course we don't expect to live to a ripe old age." A queer expression flitted across his face. "Had we known, I don't think we'd have gone out of our way to engage Schwarz. We had no idea what powers we'd be fighting." 

"I guess I should be flattered." But all he could think of were the gruelling mental training sessions that pushed most of the potential mindreaders in his year group beyond their limits. Powers like his, more often than not, meant insanity or death for its possessor. He had survived, yes, but he belonged to the minority. Every power had a price, and not many could afford it. "By the way, what did your teammates say about your last mission?" 

"Not much." All the same, Youji grimaced. "Does Farfarello like blood that much?" 

Schuldig nearly started in surprise before he remembered that Youji had no recollections of his night with Schwarz. "Usually he does. So, how did your teammates react to that particular piece of news?" 

"In one word? Predictably." 

"They said nothing about me?" He found that improbable. 

"I didn't tell them." 

What? "Why?" 

Youji turned to meet his gaze. "I didn't think that it concerned them." Shadows lurked in his eyes as the sun disappeared below the horizon. "All these between us... I thought it's private; just between us." 

"Doesn't meeting your enemy constitute public concern?" He got to his feet, his muscles stiff from staying still for so long, and decided that it was time to leave. He didn't consciously know why he kept having these strange talks with the Weiß assassin, and he was not ready to ask himself that, either. He simply wanted to get out of there, now. 

Youji's next words arrested him in his tracks. "Do we have to be?" 

"Can we not?" He snorted derisively. 

"That's between Weiß and Schwarz. Can we have a private truce?" The white hunter smiled slightly. "We're practically having that as it is." 

Schuldig stared. Youji was holding out his hand—only a few inches out, to be sure, but the gesture's meaning was obvious. 

Truce? They _were_ practically having that, he admitted to himself, but to acknowledge it as such was another matter. 

Still, if it was just between the two of them... 

"Fine." 

  


~~~

  


Omi woke to the placid beeping of the computer and the monotonous blinking of the monitor. He sat up straight, then made a grab for the blanket that had been draped over him and was now sliding off his shoulders. The digital clock read 0340h. It looked as though he had fallen asleep at the computer again. 

He jumped when he heard the door leading down to the basement open, then relaxed—he recognised the footsteps. "Ken-kun?" 

"You're awake? I thought you'd have been fast asleep long ago. You haven't been resting enough." 

Omi shrugged—or tried to. He had yet to discover any sleeping position at the computer that did not cramp _some_ muscles. "Have to keep up the research." He leaned back against the seat, shifting his shoulder blades tentatively to ease the tension. 

Ken walked over to read the screen. "What's this for? Our mission or Schwarz?" 

"Mission." Much as he wanted to pursue Schwarz's trail, accomplishing the mission had higher priority, and this mission was about seventy percent hacking-related. He had been pushing himself, but cracking these codes was not easy. He had been desperate enough—and tired enough—to leave a program running now, one that tried all possible code combinations in the trial and error fashion. Of course, that yielded nothing. What a fruitful day. 

Ken glanced at him. "Want a massage?" 

"Sure, thanks. Do you suppose you could get me some coffee?" He needed the caffeine. 

"At this time? Are you going to pull an all-nighter again?" Calloused hands kneaded his aching muscles, paying special attention to those that he found hard to reach himself—physiotherapy had been a compulsory course in Ken's class back in his soccer days. "How about cocoa? Hot chocolate?" 

"No, coffee." He wanted to hurry up and finish this mission _fast_. The formidable prowess of Kritiker's network was only available to Weiß for a limited period. "I've to get the mission out of the way before using the network for ourselves." 

"Can't you just hack into Kritiker's database?" 

Consequences for such wilful behaviour tended to be ugly. "I'm afraid not." Omi sighed as Ken worked out a knot in his still mostly tense muscles. "Thanks, Ken-kun." 

"You're welcome," Ken muttered as he closed his tired eyes for a moment. 

Somehow, he drifted off, and next woke to a display of 0947h. A glass of water stood handy on the computer table. So Ken didn't get him coffee; probably figured—correctly—that he would pass out before the drink arrived. 

Omi thanked his old friend silently as he gulped down the water, then lurched up the stairs. He wanted breakfast. 

Aya was hanging out the laundry when he walked in. The redhead, being his normal silent self, only gave him a brief nod. Omi looked around. "Aya-kun, do you know where Youji-kun and Ken-kun are?" The shop was closed today, so they could not be there. 

"Soccer match. Ken's the referee." 

"And Youji-kun?" He opened the fridge to rummage for something edible. They would have to shop for groceries again soon, it seemed. 

"Ken dragged him along." 

Omi stopped. "And Youji-kun actually went?" Now that he thought about it, Youji _had_ been in relatively high spirits lately. 

Aya finished his chore and joined him in the kitchen. "Ken was surprised too; Youji has never gone before." 

He poured himself a mug of coffee from the coffee maker, making a note to himself to cut down on the habit unless the situation required it. Caffeine addiction was not something he wanted, and if he wanted to be able to stay up when he needed to, he could not afford to increase his tolerance. 

He worried about Youji; they all did, especially now that Youji _seemed_ all right. They had depended upon one another through countless situations, but for all that, Omi admitted that he did not really understand his old friend. How did Youji really feel? Looking okay did not automatically imply feeling okay, especially for introverts. The period immediately after that Schreiend mission had been unnerving precisely because Youji had been down enough to not even bother about pretending the way he usually did, but now that things had settled down, Omi found himself dealing with the same old problem. How was Youji faring? He could ask, sure, but he would not know if what his old friend would surely say was true. "Aya-kun." 

"Yes?" 

"Is Youji-kun okay?" 

Cool violet eyes looked up. "Why would you ask me?" 

"I think you know him better than I do. Is he?" 

Aya closed his eyes for a moment. "I think so." His reply was slow, but it was not hesitant. Omi trusted that. Aya was observant, and sensitive to how others feel in an unobtrusive way. "How's the mission going?" 

"Still hacking. Within a week is the most I can promise." 

"How many of us?" 

"Two would do, I think." 

The conversation continued along familiar lines. 

  


~~~

  


After the match was over, Youji excused himself from the gang of laughing children, waved at Ken—the latter was surrounded by yet more kids—and sauntered off. He wanted to visit their place again. 

Yes, _their_ place. He was already thinking of it as that. 

Watching the soccer match had been fine, but rowdy excitement was not exactly his thing. He had watched with something akin to amused indulgence—Ken was never as happy as when he goofed off with kids. 

Not in the mood to drive, he called a cab and spent most of the ride gazing outside at the passing scenery that was rapidly becoming familiar to him. He could learn to love this. 

There were issues at hand, sure, but he did not want to think about them. The current feelings—whatever they might be—were intoxicating, and he did not want them or the strange ceasefire to end any time soon. 

Schuldig was already there when he got off the cab, wearing a light grin that looked almost boyish. "Hi." 

"Yo." He felt a grin tugging his own lips. There was a time when he thought that the only way the German could smile was to forcibly crack those cold thin lips, but this... Everything seemed so natural. 

They sat down in the shade of an overhanging tree. Schuldig stretched somewhat gingerly. "Don't mind me. I'm having a sensory overload." 

"Oh? What's that?" 

"Aftermath of prolonged mindreading. I've erased most of it from my own head, but it's going to be a while before I can flush out all the residue." The orange-haired young man frowned. "It's not really a headache, but after this many years, the feeling is still disorientating." 

"Shouldn't you rest then?" 

"Who wants to be cooped up inside on a day like this? Besides, that doesn't help." Schuldig shrugged slightly, then winced. "Would you mind if I make myself more comfortable?" 

Before Youji could reply, the other young man had shifted his position and leaned back, resting his head on Youji's thigh. Blue eyes looked up into his own with something that he would have called uncertainty in anyone else as he tensed unconsciously. 

"You don't mind—do you?" 

Did he? Was he supposed to? 

He effectively separated the two questions in his own mind. "No. Go ahead." 

"Thanks." 

They stayed in companionable silence. Youji wondered, bemusedly, what was it that kept drawing them together. It definitely wasn't fate, he did not believe in that, but what was it? 

"What are you thinking about?" 

"Huh?" 

"You're projecting. I'm not trying to read you, but it's a little hard to ignore when the thought is about me." 

"Why do we keep meeting? Like this?" 

There was a long pause. "I don't know," Schuldig said at last. 

They fell silent again. He watched the clouds that drifted lazily across the sky. It wasn't often that reality matched postcards, but the clouds did surpass pictorial depictions today. Fluffy and abundant, they looked almost solidly white against the vivid azure backdrop. 

Occasionally, two pieces of clouds would appear to meet and form a larger cloud—yet, more often than not, they would eventually drift apart again, having never merged in the first place but only appeared so because one had been above the other and thus looked like one entity to watchers below. 

It was like taking a break from reality, this bizarre truce of theirs, but would it last? Or would it be like these clouds, to eventually separate, as though they had never met, because they truly had never been together? 

Yet... Youji admitted to himself, he did not really want to ask that. Too often, bubbles burst the moment one tried to examine it more closely; he wanted this to last. As long as it could, anyway. 

"By the way, are you hungry?" It suddenly occurred to him that it was past noon now. 

"Sort of. Do you have to get back?" 

He considered that question. Aya had asked him to call if he _was_ coming back for lunch, not the other way round— "No. If you don't have to either, how about we grab a bite together?" 

Schuldig pushed himself up by his elbows, his expression unreadable. "I'm free, yeah, but you're sure you don't want to go back?" 

He would be lying if he said that he did not want to spend time with his friends, but... "What if I'd rather be here instead?" 

  


~~~

  



	5. Part IV

**Part IV**

Farfarello had his calm periods, but they came at irregular intervals, and Nagi was never quite prepared to see the madman eating dinner placidly when he entered the kitchen. 

The Irishman looked up from his plate of suspiciously edible-looking food. "You going out?" 

"No, why?" 

"It looks like rain." 

"Oh. Thanks." Nagi went through the contents of the fridge and assembled his own meal. "Where are the rest?" 

"Crawford is in; Schuldig is out." 

Nagi nodded absently, and was about to start on his dinner when Crawford strode—no, _stormed_—in. Nagi stared for a moment; Crawford seldom displayed his anger, but this... something did not bode well. 

A hard glare fixed itself on him. "Are you free now, Nagi?" Something in the voice warned him that he had better be. 

His peripheral vision told him that Farfarello had taken that as a cue for retreat, and did exactly that. Smart move. Nagi sighed to himself, and his stomach echoed it resignedly. "Yes, what is it?" 

"Someone is going to try to hack into our network." 

Nagi felt his face tighten. "Who?" They had always known that there were people trying to track Schwarz, but so far, none had gotten _this_ close. If it was SS... 

"I don't know," the older man bit out. "Now get to work." 

As though he needed that reminder. He was already running down the corridor to the computer room by the time the American finished speaking, even as he uttered the automatic "Yes, Crawford." 

  


~~~

  


Gaze locked to the screen, his fingers flew rapidly over the keyboard, and elation danced at the edge of his awareness. The search had been so long, every step painstakingly verified to make sure that it wasn't a step in the wrong direction—Schwarz's computer expert, whoever he was, had left enough red herrings to start a fish market—but now... it would be over soon. He could feel it. 

Soon, he would locate Schwarz for good. 

Distantly, he heard his two teammates' voices, but as though from far, far away... 

"Don't disturb him." 

"He hasn't slept or eaten for days!" 

"He's surviving on what he's doing. You know how he gets when he's hot on the scent." 

"He's going to hurt himself if he continues like this." 

"He won't listen." 

"Yeah... I know." 

He pushed everything else out of his mind and concentrated on the world only he knew before him; not far now... almost in sight... 

The place turned pitch black around him. 

It took a moment for the implications to sink in. 

"Damn!" The explosive left his mouth almost before he knew it, even as he clenched his fists, fighting against the urge to hit something, anything. Of all the times to have a power failure— 

"Omi? Are you all right?" 

He looked up numbly—not that it did much good; the basement had no windows, and in any case, this was night time. "Huh?" 

"The whole place blacked out. Up and down the street too, as far as I can see." He could place the speaker now: Aya. "Do you want to come up?" 

Adrenaline seeped out of him, slowly but surely. He had been so close... "Okay." He wanted to just curl up on the couch, but that did no good, and he knew it. 

Dully, he trekked up the curving staircase, blinking at the faint light that emitted from the kitchen. The entire place was dark, and thunder was rumbling outside, warning of rain to follow, so what was that light? 

Firm hands stirred him gently into the kitchen. "Ken." 

The dark-headed young man looked up with a wide grin. "Good thing that I remember where we kept the candles. I'm making sandwiches. Ham or—" 

"Ham would do, thanks." He was starting to feel vaguely hungry. "Do we still have cheese?" 

"Bought yesterday," Ken announced cheerfully, stacking thick slices in between two chunks of bread. "Here." 

"Ken-kun, that's too much; I can't finish—" 

"Do you remember when you last ate?" Ken gave a fair imitation of Aya's glare. "End of discussion. Eat." 

Omi gave in and took a tentative bite, chewing slowly. His mouth felt dry, after—well, goodness knows how long. 

Aya poured him a glass of water without being prompted. "Go to bed after you're done, Omi. You need the rest." 

"But the hacking—" He slumped into a seat. "I was getting so close—" 

"I called the power supplies," the redhead informed him. "This is expected to last till morning." 

He shut up and finished his sandwich in silence. Could the timely black out be something other than coincidence? On the whole, he thought not. Probably just bad luck; luck, after all, had never been Weiß's friend. 

And now that the end disappeared from sight, fatigue and disappointment began to take their toll. He rose to his feet. "Guys, I'm going to sleep..." 

"Yes, we can tell," Ken's voice muttered, as arms steadied him and half-guided, half-carried him to his own bedroom. His brain was complaining, softly but persistently, threatening to shut down soon anyway even if he did not lie down. 

"Ken-kun, when the power comes back..." he fought drowsiness long enough to get that out, even as he more or less stumbled into bed. 

"I'll wake you up, don't worry. I know what's at stake here." 

Rain started to fall outside, accompanying him into slumber. 

  


~~~

  


It was a dark and stormy night... 

"Urgh!" the voice from the other side of the room groaned, even as its owner sat up with a grin. "Do you have any idea how clichéd that phrase is?" 

He grinned back. "Well, it is." 

"Oh, right. Spare me." Schuldig stood up and joined him by the window. "Move over. There's space for two." 

"What's there to see?" 

"If you're here, why shouldn't I be?" 

"Fine, fine, suit yourself." He threw up his hands in exaggerated despair. He didn't really mind, of course. They both knew it. They both knew that they knew it. They both knew that they knew that—but this could go on forever. The gist of it was, they were comfortable with each other, in a way that Youji would scarcely have imagined possible with anyone, let alone a member of Schwarz. 

Except... he no longer associated Schuldig with that. 

Their truce had lasted for close to a month now, and they often hung out together. At their outdoors spot during daytime meetings, and the occasional night meeting—like tonight—at his old office. Asuka, Youji felt, would not have minded. 

And he was gradually growing to know the German better; they talked about anything, from popular films to news, from the weather to choice restaurants in town. Stuff that he had never talked about with anyone, not because they were secrets—they were not—but because they were so... irrelevant. Random, light, without any bearing on the seriousness of an assassin's existence. 

But the very relationship between Schuldig and himself was separate from that more solemn, tangible life, so why not? He had never felt this comfortable before, when he could simply say anything that came to mind and know for sure that he would not be judged in any way. Now, with this young man who chose to advertise his guilt to the whole world... In his own mind, he already considered Schuldig a friend. 

"By the way, when do you have to get back?" Schuldig was leaning out as he spoke, arm outstretched to catch the raindrops. 

"I should probably call soon. And you?" 

The mindreader glanced back with a shrug. "They won't care." 

"They won't?" That was not quite the image he had formed of Schwarz from Schuldig's occasional remarks. 

"Okay, maybe 'won't bother' is a more exact term." Schuldig ran a hand through his orange hair. "They _would_ care if, say, I show up covered in blood or if I disappear without a trace for a week, but they won't bother me otherwise. We don't function that way. Besides, there's no need for worry under most circumstances." Blue eyes glanced at him. "And just a reminder, your shield is wavering." 

He made a wry face and concentrated. "Better?" 

"Yeah. Now keep it up." 

Youji suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. How _did_ some people manage this twenty-four hours a day? Schuldig had offered the tutoring back when their truce first began—sort of to keep their relationship on a more equal basis, perhaps—but when he agreed, he had not counted on how much concentration it took. "How long did you take to learn?" 

"Faster than you're doing now—but I had a helluva lot more incentive." Schuldig did not smile. "Just keep it up. Eventually it will become part of your subconscious." 

"Okay." He reinforced in his mind. Learning to shield had been an uphill fight all the way, but it was growing easier with practice now. And he appreciated the lesson—Schuldig wanted to let him have control of his own privacy, even if the mindreader had not said so in so many words—but that was the case for almost everything they had between them. 

"Didn't you say you're going to call?" Schuldig reminded him. 

"I guess so. Excuse me." He went out into the corridor to use his hand phone. "Done." 

"What did you tell them?" Schuldig asked curiously. 

"That I'll be late. It's raining hard, you know; there's a power failure on their side of the city." 

"You don't plan to leave?" Schuldig's tone was almost too casual. 

"What, kicking me out? Hey, wait, this is _my_ pad. I should be the one telling you to scram." 

"But you aren't." The German's face relaxed into a smirk. "So since I'm, ahem, infringing upon your hospitality anyway, are there more cookies around?" 

He produced the jar from the drawer in his old desk and tossed it over. "Why do I have this feeling that we're making pigs of ourselves?" 

"Hey, you can do with a few more pounds." Schuldig helped himself to the contents of the jar before passing it back. 

"Oh yes, and you can't," he retorted good-naturedly, biting into a cookie. "Chicks dig lean men, not fat ones." 

"You've a long way to go before you can get there, don't worry." Schuldig chuckled, then sobered. "In any case, do you dig them?" 

He blinked. "I beg your pardon?" 

"Do you go for those so-called chicks?" The orange-haired young man's eyes were completely serious. 

"I—" he began automatically, then stopped. Did he mean that? He wasn't so sure anymore. 

And those eyes surely weren't helping. 

Blue. Shouldn't blue be a cold colour? He had always associated blue with ice, but now it seemed closer to fire. Intense, burning; like flames. Suddenly 'blazing blue' didn't seem like a contradiction in terms anymore. 

It was almost impossible to concentrate with these eyes staring at him, burning, or so it seemed, through him. 

"Never mind," Schuldig said suddenly. "Forget that I asked." 

He managed a wry smile. "Good, since I don't have the answer." 

"But if you do figure it out—" 

"I'll tell you. Deal?" 

"Deal." 

  


~~~

  


Crawford glared at the computer, momentarily wishing that he dared strike at it. But he was by no means impulsive—and thank goodness for that. Venting frustration was all very well, but it would set things back, and he could not afford that here. Time was the crucial factor now. 

Time, which Nagi had bought for Schwarz. 

He gritted his teeth silently, ignoring the almost foreign sensation called feelings that coursed through him. He was getting too emotional. He did not feel sorry, of course. His vision had given him as much information as it could (which was nothing more exact than the approximate region of Tokyo where Schwarz's tracker was based), and Nagi did his best with that: when it became apparent that there was not enough time to either change everything that could possibly show the way to Schwarz or even hack into the city's power supplies, the young telekinetic had used his mental powers to sever the cables for that part of the city themselves. No one was at fault here; why should he blame himself that the boy collapsed along with the black out he caused? 

Concentrate on the job at hand, damn it. 

Nagi was the residential technology whiz, but Crawford was the one who taught him the basics from day one. If anyone, _he_ should be able to figure out how all these protections were programmed— 

"Crawford." Farfarello walked into the room. 

"What is it?" Sometimes he could not decide who was more irritating when it came to etiquette, Schuldig or Farfarello. The former exaggerated almost outrageously, making himself a nuisance on purpose, while the latter seriously did not care to comprehend the concept of knocking before entering. The German didn't care, and the Irishman didn't understand. Which was worse? Hard question, that. 

"Nagi woke." 

"Oh." He _had_ told Farfarello to inform him as soon as Nagi regained consciousness—but that did not mean he enjoyed being disturbed, especially when he was trying—and failing—to work the layers of protection that Nagi had set. "Anything else?" 

No reply came. He glanced up to find a golden eye glaring at him sullenly. "Is that all you've to say?" the white-haired young man spat. "He passed out for you." 

"Not for me; for Schwarz." Farfarello's way of seeing things was way too simple. "Now get out." 

"It's not fair." 

Great. It looked as though he had two kids on his hands—three if he counted Schuldig. Crawford snarled to himself as his temples began to pound. He did _not_ need this, not now. "Get. Out." 

"No." 

Crawford clamped down firmly on his instinctive response, which was to punch his impossible teammate into the nearest wall, and instead stood up slowly. "I need to work, Farfarello. Leave. Now." 

The madman held up a slip of paper. "Not until you take this. Nagi wants you to have it." 

He took it immediately, and sat back down before the computer. Farfarello turned and left without another word. Good. He really didn't know how much more he could take. The unknown enemy, the spur-of-the-moment plan, the race against time to cover Schwarz's tracks completely before the faceless tracker's power supply returned and latched onto their information, Nagi's collapse, Farfarello's unreasonable behaviour... Right now, he wanted nothing more than to bury his head somewhere and ignore the problem—but he was the leader and he could not allow himself that respite. 

Crawford shot a glance at the now empty doorway, and turned his attention to the piece of paper. Maybe he was too harsh on them. But if anything, he was only harsher on himself. Farfarello might as well live with it. He smoothened out the paper that he had unconsciously crumpled up—and stared. 

On it, Nagi had written—with his hand obviously still shaking—all the directions and passwords for the protection programmes. 

Crawford clenched his jaw almost instinctively, against—what? He did not know. So, of course, he ignored it. 

There was, after all, no time to lose. 

With the Japanese boy's note for reference, he began typing once more. 

Thanks, Nagi. 

  


~~~

  


"How _did_ people survive in the old days with only candles?" Ken muttered for at least the third time. "It's not bright enough to do anything!" 

Ran was relaxed—and bored—enough to offer a reply. "In the old days people sleep at night." 

The soccer lover groaned and slouched further into his chair. "That's not supposed to be funny, is it?" 

"It's not." He refilled their cups of tea. Omi had slept long ago, but the two of them stayed up by unspoken consent: someone ought to keep watch, given how most of the security gadgets around depended on electricity to run and were now useless. And being awake alone on a stormy night like this was hardly appealing. "If you want something to do, how about a workout?" 

Ken looked a little doubtful. "Okay, I admit I've slacked a little this week, but our equipment's downstairs and we can't exactly keep watch from the basement." 

"We can take turns. I'll stay here for now." 

"Thanks." Ken grinned. "I'll take over you after I'm done." With that, he sauntered off, and Ran was left to contemplate the flickering flame in silence. Not that he minded, really; he liked the quiet atmosphere. 

And he ought to enjoy it while he could—something told him that they would be facing off Schwarz soon. Rationally, it was not something that he should look forward to. This was Schwarz that they were trying to track and defeat, after all; how possible was it? How impossible was it? All three of them knew the odds, certainly, but some things were not decided rationally. As always, the memory of what Schwarz had done to his teammate steeled his resolve before it even began to hesitate. He would never forgive himself if he ever forgot. 

But sometimes... it seemed almost as though Youji had. 

Ran frowned to himself. While he was glad that Youji had been spared the memories of that traumatic experience, he did not trust the mindreader's motives. Yet whom could he discuss this with? Ken hated Schwarz with a vengeance, and Omi—well, one word should sum it up: Ouka. Sometimes he wished that Youji had never confided in him. 

As though the thought summoned him, Youji's car pulled up outside. Ran got to his feet, grateful for a distraction from questions he had no answer to—questions that he doubted if anyone, including Youji himself, could answer. 

  


~~~

  


"No, it's no good," Omi sighed at last, pushing himself away from the computer with a look of mingled frustration and disgust. "Every lead I've found, every trace I've followed—gone!" The last word practically exploded into the quiet room, but the youthful killer's expression did not change. Some people, Ran knew, could vent their feelings by talking or screaming about them; others could not. 

Knowing that nothing he could say or do would be of much use here, Ran left the basement silently. 

Ken came in with lunch just as he came up. "How's the research going?" the younger man asked, then apparently read something in his expression. "Hopeless, huh?" 

"Yes." 

Ken groaned. "Poor kid. I can guess how this feels like. Shouldn't we try to calm him down?" 

"He _is_ calm. That's the problem." Ran glanced at the takeaway Ken had bought. "Pizza?" 

"Yeah." Everyone knew that pizza ranked high on Omi's list of favourites. 

"I'll call him up." 

Omi was pacing the entire basement when Ran came down again, his face an almost expressionless mask, save for the constant tightening and relaxation at the corners of his lips. Ran found himself being reminded of a bomb with an impossibly long fuse: able to explode, willing to explode, wanting to explode—but probably never would. 

"Omi, lunch time." 

"Later, Aya-kun. I don't feel hungry yet." 

"Ken bought pizza. Come up." Ran walked over and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. 

Omi tensed, then nodded slowly. "Aya-kun?" His voice was thin and tired. 

"Yes?" 

"Can you tell me how to get mad?" 

Under other circumstances, such a question from anyone would have seemed ridiculous, but Ran understood what Omi meant. "No, I can't." Different people had different ways of handling their feelings. His own parents had never argued, or even disagreed in their children's presence—and Ran grew up without knowing how to do that. People who met him for the first time usually tended to be surprised when he switched from complete calmness to total fury without any warning, but he could not help it. The only time his emotions ever showed was when he reached boiling point—and then the dam burst. 

Unfortunately for Omi, the boy's dam would not burst forth even when he reached that point. 

"Leave it. You'll feel better eventually." Not much of decent advice, that, but it came from personal experience. 

"Okay." The smile that Omi gave him was wan. "I was so close..." 

"That's over now. We'll find them again." 

Ken had set out the food before the TV when they entered the apartment. "There's a movie in ten minutes' time. Re-run, of course, but I don't think you've seen it." 

"What's the title?" 

"'Home Alone'. Then there's 'Moulin Rouge' on another channel. Which do you want?" 

"Not 'Moulin Rouge'," Omi said immediately, a spark of life coming back into his eyes. "Some of my classmates watched it before—half of them spent the time crying, the other half laughing their heads off. [1] Let's stick with something that is what it intends to be." 

"Okay." Ken tossed up the remote control before catching it and pointing it at the TV with a flourish. "Here goes." 

"Shouldn't you be more careful with electronic equipment, Ken-kun?" 

"Do you realise that you're speaking to a soccer goalie?" Ken mock-scowled. "I demand satisfaction. Name your weapon." 

"Fork and spoon." 

"Shouldn't it be fork and knife—oh wait, that's Aya's specialty." Ken ducked as a plastic knife flew at him. "Forget that I said anything!" 

"My katana is _not_ a knife." Ran kept his face straight. 

"Okay, okay!" Ken yelped as a real smile began to light up Omi's face. "Ceasefire, alright? The movie's starting." 

Ran smiled to himself as the movie rolled on and the food got demolished. It looked as though Omi was all right now. 

Three quarters through the movie, Omi leaned forward suddenly. "Intruders, of course!" 

"What?" Ken looked blank. 

"Don't you remember? Youji-kun encountered Farfarello on our mission the other time; how did he know? Where did he come from? Where did he leave?" Omi was growing more excited by the moment. "Excuse me." 

There was an almost expectant silence as Omi dashed out of the living room, presumably to the basement. The two of them stared at each other over pizza leftovers for a moment. 

"Well, I guess he's fine now." Ken grinned. 

"Let's clear up." 

  


~~~

  


Another lazy, idle afternoon. Pointless, perhaps; useless, perhaps. Whatever. Maybe he was just addicted to all the frivolous, useless things in life. 

Schuldig stretched his legs out, and leaned back against his companion. They were sitting back to back now, not really talking much, just being comfortable in each other's silence. 

No, not really silence, was it? Just silence from other people's thoughts. There were mundane, everyday sounds around them, sounds that he usually did not notice in his efforts to set up enough barriers to hear himself think. He tilted his head slightly, distinguishing a sound that seemed vaguely familiar, from far off. "What's that?" 

"Hmm?" 

"That sound. There it goes again." 

"Ah, that. It's a cicada. Summer's here." 

No wonder it sounded familiar. He smiled somewhat wryly to himself, remembering a brighter childhood when he used to sneak out at night to observe a cicada nymph moult into an adult. But that was a long time ago. Still... the existence he led now looked almost as bright. 

Wait, the second childhood was supposed to be senility. 

Oops. 

He chuckled to himself, and emerald eyes glanced over in askance. "No, you don't want to know." 

"Okay, I'll take your word on it." Youji reached back suddenly, resting his palm against the trunk of the tree under which shade they were sitting. "Look, here's one." 

"Cicada?" 

"No, its shell." The blond young man leaned closer. "I haven't seen one for a long time; used to collect them." 

"Collect? For what?" 

"Money. It's used in Chinese medicine." 

Schuldig made a face. "_Medicine_? People _ate_ this for the benefit of their health?" 

"Don't ask me how it's used; I never asked." Youji shrugged. "Besides, cicadas themselves make a dish, too. Fried, I think." 

"Thanks. I really needed to know that." Different cultures and all, he supposed, but he wasn't quite ready to be that open-minded. "Have you observed a cicada moulting?" 

"They mostly do that at night, don't they? I've better ways to spend my time. Had, anyway." An obscure look of pain flashed across Youji's face as Schuldig turned to look at him, but it disappeared in the next moment. 

So he pretended not to have seen it. He knew Youji well enough by now to know the taboo topics. "Say, do you want to watch one of these little things squeeze out of its shell? It used to be quite interesting, as I recall." 

"How old were you then?" Youji sounded curious. 

"Seven." His grin almost wavered. It was something that he seldom had occasion to remember, since... well, since he last led that life. 

Still, he just wanted some leisure time here; there was nothing wrong with thinking about the past. 

"I won't mind," Youji said softly, breaking into his reverie. "Watching life... there's something enthralling about it." 

Schuldig nearly started. That sentiment described his fascination with mindreading perfectly. Youji and himself were really quite similar in some ways, weren't they? "So, how about we meet up some night next week?" 

"No specific date?" 

"Hey, what am I supposed to do after I find a nymph? Tell it 'hello, I want you to start wiggling at 9 pm tomorrow'?" 

"Nicely put," Youji chuckled. 

Off in the distance, another cicada's song began. 

  


~~~

  


"Found them!" The triumphant cry echoed throughout the basement, as Omi himself grinned widely, exhilaration threatening to split his face into two. Not, of course, that anyone would have begrudged him that. The boy's loud satisfaction was understandable, considering how long the search had taken him, and how difficult each step had been. 

Besides, this was Schwarz that they were after. Ken looked ready to make some war cries himself, Ran thought, not bothering to hide the feral smile that crept up his own lips. "And our next step?" 

Omi became all—well, almost—business at once. "Youji-kun. We'll report our findings to Kritiker and request for the mission after that, but we've to tell Youji-kun first. We can't keep him in the dark any longer." 

"True." Ran glanced at the clock. It was four-thirty in the afternoon now, and Youji had agreed to call before that if he planned to come back for dinner. "We'll talk with him tomorrow, after tonight's mission." 

  


~~~

  


It was not Nagi's fault. 

He drew his hand back. 

It was not Nagi's fault. 

He saw the flash of surprise in those dark eyes. 

It was not Nagi's fault. 

He saw the surprise turn into something less tangible, something that looked like resignation. 

It was not Nagi's fault. 

He brought his hand down. 

Someone caught his hand from behind—no small feat by itself, that. He knew who it was before he sprung around to meet Schuldig's icy glare. As though anyone else sneak upon him undetected. 

"And what," the German purred in a dangerously careless voice, "do you think you're doing?" 

It. Was. Not. Nagi's. Fault. 

Having overridden his rage for the moment, he met Schuldig's eyes, returning glare for glare. "I should think that's fairly obvious. Where have you been?" 

Schuldig's eyes narrowed. "That's none of your business, Crawford. But you can't say the same. What's going on here? What do you have against Nagi?" 

The mindreader must be seriously annoyed, Crawford decided; he wasn't even bothering to annoy others. Furthermore, he _did_ need to enlighten his teammate regarding their situation. "Do you remember that someone has been tracking us?" 

"That case of nipping too close to home the week before last? Of course." Schuldig did not even miss a beat. "They came close again?" 

"Worse still, they found us," he bit out, not bothering to check Schuldig's expression for any changes. The day the mindreader actually _showed_ his emotions instinctively—well, that day would never come, so forget it. "And I don't know how they managed it this time. The only redeeming thing is, Nagi traced them back to _their_ base." 

"And who are they?" Schuldig tilted his head, not offering any guesses. 

"Weiß." 

"_Weiß_?" There was a pause before Schuldig spoke again, his voice dry. "It seems as though Bombay's hacking skills are better than we've given them credit for." Crossing his arms, the German dropped into a swivelling chair and fixed him with a look that varied between unreadable and indescribable. "So, what do we do now?" 

Crawford sat down as well, realising with a grim start that he had not thought that far yet. Damn. The irrational rage had sprung up as soon as Nagi reported the break-in and identity of Schwarz's tracker just now, leaving him little time for his sense to have its say. "Nagi, check out what Weiß is up to; if they're after us, we should take the initiative." 

"They have a mission tonight, Crawford. I gathered that much from Bombay's pre-mission files when I traced back to Weiß's network just now." 

"Print out what you've got." 

"Yes, Crawford." 

Schuldig's eyes were still on him when he turned his attention back to that conversation. "Lighten up, Brad, okay? Nagi doesn't deserve that kind of treatment." 

He felt a surge of surprise, though he did not show it. If _Schuldig_ thought he was harsh... perhaps he _had_ gone a little too far. "Schwarz comes first; you know that." 

"Oh yes I do—and Nagi knows it better, I think." The younger man stood up and made for the door. "Besides, has it ever occurred to you that he'd take whatever shit you dish out, even when he's personally against it? Ease it; you don't need to push him the way you push me." 

"What?" Since when did Schuldig make a habit of defending others? 

Schuldig paused at the doorway and looked back with what Crawford privately termed as his copyrighted smirk. "You're growing senile, Braddy-kins, if you couldn't even hear that. Call me when we leave tonight, will you? I'll be in my room." 

  


~~~

  


"Cold?" Aya asked sharply as Youji shuffled in his coat, stuffing his hands into his pockets. 

Youji felt like rolling his eyes, but refrained—even if Aya could not see it in the darkness, _he_ could. "We've gone through this before, Abyssinian. I'm fine." 

"If you say so." Aya, it seemed, caught the subtle message in his chosen form of address: they were on a mission. 

This was a routine mission, though, as routine as killing could get. Clear target, convenient location, little chance of eyewitnesses... all Weiß had to do was to get in, kill, and get out again, plus detonate the place behind them. Ken had volunteered for the former and Omi was the natural choice for the latter—hence Aya and himself were standing sentry now. 

Youji frowned to himself. Ken had seemed very eager to go on their mission tonight. He looked around again; there was no one in the general vicinity. "Abyssinian, may I ask something?" 

"Yes." 

"What's got into Siberian? He doesn't usually insist on being the—the one who does the killing." 

There was a pause. "He's trying to work off his excessive energy." 

"You're sure that it's not bloodlust?" 

Another pause. "Don't go off after the mission, Balinese. We have to talk." 

"You and I?" 

"All of us." 

He would have asked further, but at that moment, Omi's voice came over via their transmitters. "Done, guys. I've set the bomb." 

Aya activated his speaker. "Then let's get out of here." 

"Too late." 

Assassins' reflexes, Youji decided later upon reflection, was probably the only reason why Aya and himself survived the opening round against their attackers. Had they paused to _think_ about it, the Irish madman would have sliced up at least one where he stood. 

"Schwarz!" Aya hissed. 

Three members of their rival team stood there, silhouetted against the faint streetlights, their faces indistinguishable. Farfarello had retreated after the initial, failed attack, and now snickered quietly beside the other two. 

The eerie silence lengthened as the two teams looked across at each other. The faint light lit upon the edges of Schuldig's unruly hair, a strip of flame outlining an otherwise dark form. 

"Hello, Weiß." Schuldig's voice, almost painfully familiar, but with that merciless quality that Youji had long stopped associating with this man, spoke dryly. It was the same greeting that he had used that morning in the woods, close to a year ago. 

Déjà vu, anyone? 

  


~~~

  


The clock indicated one o'clock when Nagi woke up, making him wonder momentarily what roused him before his senses kicked in, reminding him that he woke of his own accord because he was no longer alone here. 

"Lovely reflexes, kid, but your brain ought to catch up," a familiar voice drawled from a corner. "And shield, will you?" 

"Schuldig, what are you doing here?" He steadied his mental shields before taking in his surroundings: his own room; past midnight. "What happened?" 

"I knocked you out before we left to confront Weiß just now—with Crawford's silent assent, of course." The mindreader did not stir from his position, draped in shades of midnight in the darkest corner. "You should have told him that you're still recovering from the backlash of that massive power failure, you know. Otherwise he'll trust that you can handle things and push you on." 

"I can." He would probably have a pounding headache for a month, but it wasn't as though he had never experienced worse backlashes before. "This concerns Schwarz." They should eliminate external threats first; he could afford to recover afterwards, not before. 

"Sometimes you're so like him that I can't believe you," Schuldig muttered. "But in any case, Crawford didn't stop me. And he didn't bite off my head, either. What does that tell you?" 

"You brainwashed him." 

"Very funny. I happen to enjoy being alive right now." Schuldig chuckled coldly, but did not press the issue. "By the way, you haven't asked yet about our little tête-à-tête with Weiß." 

"So, how did it go?" 

"Begin report. We dropped by just as they finished their mission, had a somewhat direct and aggressive exchange of opinions, and then got interrupted—now why does that sound familiar?—by the explosives Bombay had set. End report. In summary: Weiß survived, but then, they've always enjoyed phenomenal luck." 

"Oh." He digested that. Had he been there... But no good would come out of speculating about it now. 

"Rest, kid." Schuldig moved to the door as he spoke. "You'd better recover soon—Crawford won't be very amused if I find it necessary to kick you into bed again." 

"Good night." He frowned to himself after the door closed, wondering. The covert concern from his teammate wasn't really surprising—he had always sensed that Schuldig did care about Schwarz—but since when did that one _not_ have any ulterior motives? 

  


~~~

  


There was a sharp hiss of pain as the ethanol-soaked cotton dabbed into the angry wound, but the redhead was otherwise silent. Youji would have ignored noises anyway—they had bandaged one another so many times over the years that he could do it automatically, which was a good thing, considering how haywire his thoughts were right now. 

The mission. The disastrous stupid _damned_ mission. 

No, he would not think about that. He would _not_— 

"Youji." 

"What?" 

"Three layers of bandages appear somewhat excessive." 

He looked down to find that Aya's arm had already been bandaged securely, and put away the fresh roll of gauze that he had been holding. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking." 

"You were. Too much thinking, I should say." Violet eyes studied him thoughtfully. 

"Whatever." 

Omi came over to where they were sitting. "Youji-kun, are you okay?" 

"You two are the ones who got bashed up and you're enquiring after my health?" He eyed the way Omi moved, favouring one leg in pain. "Alright, kid, I'm not dumb. What do you guys want to talk about? Aya mentioned before that there's something to discuss." 

"Well, yes." Omi sat down gingerly, not putting any more weight on his right foot than he could help. "Ken-kun, can you please come here?" 

The soccer lover had been edging over anyway, and obeyed at once. Youji leaned forward—resting his chin in his hands, which conveniently covered half his face—and waited. He had a bad feeling about this. 

"It's about Schwarz, Youji-kun." 

"I figured." 

"We've been trying to find them, since—" Omi trailed off, refraining from mentioning the event. "You know, that." 

"'We'?" He was obviously the only one being excluded here, and he wasn't sure if he liked it. They probably just meant to be protective, but still... 

Omi bit his lips, but his voice was firm when he replied. "Aya-kun, Ken-kun, and myself. Mostly searching on my part; that they know what I'm doing is about all." Large sincere eyes sought his own, obscure behind the dual protection of his hair and sunglasses. "Perhaps we should have told you from the start, but there was nothing to show for the search then. I had no clues, no traces, and absolutely no idea of how to find Schwarz. For a long time, all I did was to grasp at straws, searching a dark cellar at midnight for a devious cat that might not even be there—we didn't want to raise your hopes over nothing. 

"Also, do you remember that Manx came with a mission concerning Schwarz last Christmas? You reacted strongly, Youji-kun, and in any case the lead was gone when I checked later. You'd get over what they did eventually, we all believed that and still do, so I kept up the search, and earlier today, I located them. Their current safe house, the contacts they keep, their frequent sources of income, and so on—enough relevant information that I'm confident to say: even if they erase everything that led me to them now, they can't slip away again. We were going to tell you after tonight's mission, Youji-kun; let you know that we'll be there with you whenever you're ready to confront Schwarz." 

"What if I'm not ready?" His voice sounded hollow to his own ears. 

"We'd wait. And meanwhile, I'd keep Schwarz in sight. I won't let them disappear again." 

"You didn't expect them to show up tonight?" 

Omi shook his head. "The only logical explanation I can think of is that somehow, they became aware of my discovery. They've been lying low all this while, so I doubt that they just want to attack out of the blue for nothing—Farfarello would and Schuldig might, but the other two seem to be more calculative. Which is why," the strategist of Weiß concluded, "we can't wait any longer. We had planned on fighting them on our own terms, when you're ready—but they are forcing our hand. I believe that they are out to eliminate, and we can't afford for them to call the shots." 

He stayed motionless throughout Omi's talk, not sure of what he might do if he gave his body any rein at all. Somehow, he felt dead inside, as though caught up in some post-war shock. And, in a way, he was. 

Cynically speaking, though, he should have expected this reality check long ago. If he hadn't been giddy from the heady feel of his bizarre friendship with Schuldig, he would have. 

The warm, lazy afternoons, talking and joking together under a clear blue sky, laughing amidst grassy hills that rolled gently all the way to a sun-lit, dazzlingly bright sea... 

But they were creatures of the night, both of them. 

In this underworld to which they both belonged, body and soul, they could only be enemies, on teams that would never view each other as anything but representatives of everything it was against. 

Even if he claimed that he wasn't ready, what good would it do? The situation had changed when Schwarz took an active role tonight—Weiß, as Omi had pointed out, could no longer afford to wait for him to be ready. What would probably happen in that case? His friends wouldn't force him to fight alongside them, and they were hardly adequate against a full team of Schwarz. Just look at what three members of that team managed to inflict on a full Weiß tonight—and they would probably have had a worse time if not for the bombs that broke up the fight. His friends—his _only_ friends for years—his family... No, he could not leave them to that fate. 

And that left... that. 

Their eyes were all on him when he lifted his eyes, not actively demanding, but the pressure _was_ there: they were willing to accept any answer he might give, and that in itself left him little choice. 

He did not try to grin. It would look fake, and he was trying to project assurance here. 

"Count me in. I'm ready." 

  


~~~

  


It was full moon tonight. If he drew his curtains apart, he would see the place bathed in clear moonlight. It was hard to appreciate the moon's relatively feeble glow in a city, but Asuka had once told him that in rural area, moonlight made a huge difference. Heck. He left the curtains alone. His room was fine as it was—full of dark shadows. The sky out there was too clear. 

And Youji resented that. 

Rain would be more appropriate, even if it leaned a little heavily on the melodramatic side. It, he privately felt, should _not_ be a fine day. Or night. Or whatever. 

Two days since the dratted mission, and he had not left Weiß's apartment except for the flower shop downstairs. He had had the morning shift today, and a week ago, that would have meant he would be visiting their spot in the afternoon. A week ago. 

He stayed in and went through an entire pack of cigarettes. 

After dinner, he had returned to his room, but did not smoke again—he had run out of them. He had been gradually weaning himself from these coffin nails lately; there was only that one pack in the house, expected to last him for a _month_, not one afternoon. And, he noted, the clear sunny day had been succeeded by the equally clear, cloudless night. Unfair. It should rain. 

His hand phone rang, and it took him a few moments to realise it. Youji picked it up. "Hello?" 

The reply took so long to come that he was about to switch the phone off, attributing it to some prank, then— 

"Youji?" Schuldig's voice asked dully. "Is that you?" 

It was a good thing that mobile phones did not break easily, because he would have reduced his to bits if he could. 

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Schuldig?" 

"You said you'd be interested to see a nymph moult." 

"Yes." 

"I found one. Our old spot. I'll be waiting." 

"I will be there." 

As though in a dream, he saw himself stride out of the apartment, giving Ken and Aya casual nods as he passed them in the corridor, leaning over the sofa to rustle Omi's hair on the way to the door, and—finally—drive off into the night. 

He had no memories of how he drove there, but he was switching off the car's engines—having arrived—before he even realised that he had started them. He got out of the car. 

Away from all but a few of those annoyingly distracting streetlights along the expressway, the moon high up in the sky cast a dreamlike sheen of silver over the entire place. Next to the overhanging tree which shade they favoured on particularly hot days, a young man stood waiting, his hands thrust into his pockets and his hair bleached pure silver. Youji slowed his approaching steps unconsciously, half-afraid that the lovely mirage would disappear dared he intrude. 

But Schuldig had already heard him. A faint smile curved up those lips as the mindreader turned to face him. "Hey." 

This was too ethereal to be true. 

This was not the underworld. 

This was not real. 

This was... safe for them. 

He smiled back. "Hey." A few more long strides brought them within arm's length of each other, grinning like a pair of idiots, or children indulging in some forbidden game and thrilled by the fact. 

It was Schuldig who spoke first. "The nymph's there; started just before you came. Here, I brought a torchlight." 

They knelt down side by side next to the tree's trunk, and Schuldig switched on the torch. Sure enough, a nymph, or its shell—what _was_ the correct term when the matured cicada had not separated from its nymph shell yet, anyway?—was clinging tightly to the bark, a lengthening crack on its back. "How does it stay here?" he whispered. 

"Honestly? I don't know," the German whispered back. "But I guess it has to in order to survive, so evolution equipped it with whatever it is. The moulting takes one hour, at least, maybe two. If the shell _doesn't_ cling tight, everything would plummet to the ground the moment it tries to wiggle out." 

"How do you know all this?" 

"Interest." Schuldig chuckled suddenly. "Can you believe that I used to want to work in the zoo? I liked animals." 

"_You_? Zoo?" He wanted to laugh, but settled for a few quiet snickers. Nothing ought to break the magical stillness of outdoors at night, and that included loud noises. 

"Hard to believe, I know." 

They turned their attention back to the tiny creature. It was fascinating, in a way that watching nature programmes—even if those shows generally feature more majestic animals—could never hope to match. 

Gradually, almost painstakingly, the half-transparent insect forced the opening wide enough to poke itself out, bit by bit. 

"It's so _white_," he remarked at last, his voice hushed. 

"Pearly white now, true." There was a bitter undertone to Schuldig's voice. "That will change very soon, when the exoskeleton hardens." 

"I've seen enough cicadas to know that they aren't generally this colour, but I thought that it's because this one's from a different species, or something." He watched as the delicate creature, now fully emerged, perch on the shell that had, until recently, been a part of it. Quivering, vibrating with every light breeze—it never ceased to amaze him that there was life, real life and awareness, inside this petite little thing. The newly freed wings were still crumpled like so much translucent moist paper... "They look fragile; the wings, I mean." 

"They'll uncurl eventually. It's not ready to fly yet." The orange-haired young man passed the torch to him. "Can you hold it? My shoulder's starting to ache." 

"Sure." He busied himself soaking up the intoxicating atmosphere all around him as he steadied the torchlight. This was so peaceful. Away from strife, from their nightlife... but this was not real. Maybe that was why he dared to be what he was. 

"By the way, do you know where these nymphs stay before they crawl out?" 

"Underground, is it? I know that tunnels in the soil are sure signs that cicadas are moulting nearby." 

"True, as far as that goes. Cicada eggs are usually stuffed somewhere on a tree, and tiny nymphs will touch down when they grow a bit, then begin digging into the ground immediately." Schuldig brushed aside a stray strand of his own hair. "The nymph will stay there for a good while—longest I've heard so far is seventeen years. Then it digs itself out, which forms the tunnels you've observed before. After that it moults, finds a mate, and produces eggs for the next generation." 

"When did _you_ major in Biology?" 

"I read up when I was bored. Bio is about as far from my life as possible." Schuldig shrugged. "What do you do when you have the time? And I don't mean women." 

"I wasn't going to say that anyway." Women. How much interest did he really have there? After Asuka, he had never allowed any of them to get close—and even in Asuka's case, he wasn't sure. Love? Comradeship? Guilt? Blood debt? Whatever... that was over and done with. "I read detective fiction; read a lot during my PI days—Asuka and I used to have mock-debates on that. She thought Sherlock Holmes is _the_ definitive detective, and I prefer Agatha Christie's longer novels. Maybe that's why she read Conan and I stuck with Kodachi—even if the latter's drawing style sucks." [2] 

"Good. If you liked Kodachi for its art quality, I would really wonder about your taste." 

"Oi! I like myself, and that's the epitome of good taste in Kudou Youji's dictionary. Besides, I like you, so if _my_ taste is lousy, what are _you_?" 

It was meant to be a joke, but Schuldig did not smile, and his own faded after a moment of strained silence. 

"Why?" Schuldig sighed suddenly. "Why you? And why now?" 

The last lingering traces of his grin died. "I don't know," he whispered into the stiflingly hushed night air. "Schuldig, do you remember that I said I'll tell you after I decide whether I'm really hetero or whatever?" 

The Caucasian young man shrank back. "No, cancel that deal. Please." Words nearly tumbled over one another in their effort to rush out. "You can't retract what you say." 

He had began that on a sudden impulse anyway. "I know." Of course he knew, rationally, that he could not say some things out aloud. 

Screw rationality. 

Still holding the torchlight, he examined the cicada. "Great bio expert, enlighten me on this. How long does a cicada live after it moults?" 

"A month, perhaps. Shorter if it moults late." Schuldig leaned over and plucked the cicada onto his own hand. The creature trembled, but made no attempt to fly on still-wrinkled wings. "Cicadas can't survive winter." 

"Is it worth it?" 

"Is what worth what?" Schuldig raised an eyebrow. 

"All that effort," he said slowly. "Years upon years of darkness, living without light except for its earliest memories, which have probably faded over the years—then it comes out into summer on earth and dies within a month? I mean, what the hell." 

"At least it gets to sing before it dies." Schuldig noted wryly. "As for whether that's worth it, I don't know." 

"Maybe it should have stayed underground," he mused. "If light is all but forgotten, it wouldn't know what it's missing." 

"And dies a trouble-free death, instead of with the knowledge of all that it had enjoyed so briefly." Schuldig returned the cicada to the tree trunk. "The good things in life never last, do they?" 

They avoided each other's eyes surreptitiously. Both were aware of the fact, but neither pointed it out. 

Some things could not be said out aloud. 

"At least it gets a chance to sing." 

"Yeah." 

They sat down on the grass, still faintly warm from the sunny day. Stars winked at them from above. Stars _looked_ close to one another, but their courses would never cross. All of them; each in its own lonely orbit... 

"Sorry about the attack." 

"It's okay. The truce was only between the two of us, anyway. When our teams get involved—" 

"I know. I can't quit." 

"Neither can I. They need me." 

They fell silent again. 

He had a sudden urge to hold the other young man close, the young man who had become a friend—or, perhaps, even beyond that—to him. Just hold on, and never let go... He wanted to reach out; he almost _did_ reach out—but he held back in time. 

The closer they come, the more painful the separation. 

"Which is worse? Regret about what had been, or what never happened?" 

"I've no idea." Schuldig got to his feet slowly. "I have to—" 

"Go back now, I know." He stood up as well. "Same here." 

The Schwarz mindreader tried a smile. "Wish I could say 'take care', but it just seems too ironic." 

"Yeah." Considering where and how they would next meet... "How about 'good luck'?" He held out his hand. 

"That I can manage." Schuldig's hand clasped his own. "Good luck, Youji." 

"Same to you." 

They each backed off a few steps, then, almost in unison, turned and left. Youji did not look back and neither, he suspected, did Schuldig. 

  


~~~

  


[1]: No, I've nothing against 'Moulin Rouge'. I haven't watched it myself, but three of my friends watched it together and laughed their way through, in the midst of a weeping audience. *shrugs* Go figure. 

[2]: Okay, maybe I should have given them Japanese detective fiction writers as favourites, but I haven't read them myself, so... *sheepish look* Conan and Kodachi are both detective manga series that I've read. Personally, Conan's way of solving mysteries remind me of Sherlock Holmes (the kind that generally depend on some physical clue to solve things, and relatively little attention paid to the 3-Dness of the suspects' characters) while Kodachi develops the people involved in each particular drama a bit more, and tend to be waaaaay longer. Sherlock Holmes stories tend to be collections of short stories, by the way, while Agatha Christie's works are mostly full-length novels that discuss, among other things, human nature. Just my opinion, anyway. And oh yes, about Kodachi's drawing. If you _don't_ think it sucks, you probably haven't been exposed to anything else. 


	6. Part V

**Part V**

The milling crowds spread out as far as eyes could see, way below them. The moving vehicles looked hardly any larger, slow steady trickles of riotous colours that trotted placidly away. Schuldig adjusted his bandana to keep his hair off his face, and squinted into the distance. A few random thoughts far below provided ample amusement, and once or twice he chuckled out aloud. 

"Something interesting, Schuldig?" Nagi asked from somewhere higher. Wind was strong, this high above the city's ground level, making his hair flutter. Even Schuldig would think twice before perching where Nagi did, but this was a telekinetic. He dusted his coat absently before glancing up with an automatic grin. 

"Some student has just figured out what his teacher's comment on his essay actually meant. Have you heard of a play called 'Macbeth'?" 

"I think so." 

"The teacher wrote 'refer to Macbeth, act blah, scene blah, lines blah to blah, and the moron actually went to look it up." 

"I think I see where this is going." 

"Probably. The quote in question goes 'It was a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.' Ouch." [1] 

Nagi did not smile, but that was only to be expected. 

"By the way, do you know how dashing you look?" 

"You are _that_ bored, Schuldig?" 

"I reflect but the truth, kid. Atop the Tokyo Tower, the setting sun at an artistic angle, trailing clouds of glory, silent and mysterious—don't try telling me that you aren't every girl's heartthrob." 

"You _are_ bored." 

"And so are you; you wouldn't be responding to my nonsense otherwise." He opened a can of Pepsi. "Still, I suppose it's better than staying inside." 

"He wants us to spread out, doesn't he? That's how I see it, anyway. We're less likely to be found if we aren't all holed up together." 

"That's one reason. Another I can think of is that we'll be in the way. Crawford's strategising now; having the rest of us around would just irk him." 

"You make a habit of that, don't you?" 

"Not right now." Crawford was dangerously close to burning out. "He's too stressed." Prolonged strain had finally begun to tell. "He can't trust Farfarello to behave, but he _can_ tell the two of us to scram." 

Nagi nodded and lifted his eyes to the horizon. "I used to want to come up here, to the very top of the tower, bathed in the sunlight," he said softly. "I thought that one could surely see as far as one wants, up here." 

"And now?" 

"I was wrong." The flat assertion fell from innocent-looking lips. "But... what's right?" 

"You have to decide that for yourself, kid." He wondered casually what he stood to lose if he leapt off—heh, he would probably bump on solid steel all the way down. Forget it. They would hang around here until Crawford called them back. 

"Have you?" 

"I thought I had, but... I'm not sure anymore." 

He got a look of surprise, followed rapidly by suspicion. Ha, figured. Nagi never trusted him, did he? Smart kid. 

  


~~~

  


Would Weiß take the bait? 

The question began to plague him as soon as he finished setting up the aforementioned bait. Crawford nearly groaned out aloud. What was done was done; fretting over the outcome was pointless. 

Now if only his head would accept that—never mind. He was stressed out, he knew—and by the time _he_ was aware of that... Crawford allowed an ironic smile to appear, for a moment. He knew very well that even he could not take much more of this. 

It would be over soon. It had better be. 

He glanced at the clock. The other two would be back soon, to be briefed on his plans. Sometimes it unsettled him, that. On one hand, he wanted them to obey, but when they did trust him implicitly... every decision and every mistake rested on his shoulders alone. He craved responsibility, but he also hated it. 

They all kept secrets from one another, of that he had no doubt—but they were all Schwarz. _That_ bound them together, more firmly than any so-called trust or friendship. For example, Schuldig probably had some secret agenda for keeping Nagi out of action during their last meeting with Weiß, but Crawford had never questioned the German about that. After all, he had his own reason for wanting the same thing. 

Experience gleaned from previous encounters taught him that where survival was concerned, the Weiß assassins were hardier than a bunch of cockroaches: if he wanted this to be the end-all, he had to take every precaution possible. One of which was to keep Nagi out of sight for now. There was information that he wanted to leak, after all, and who would believe that Nagi could allow anything out by accident? 

Crawford wrenched his thought off that well-traversed path. He had thought through this; there was no need to go through all that again. 

Just wait; the other two would be back in ten minutes or so. 

Night time. Thrill of a hunt. Gunshot. Swish of a katana. 

The sudden, vivid vision stunned him for a moment—and thankfully, no one was around to see that—before he interpreted it. Then Crawford smiled. 

So, Weiß _would_ take the bait. 

  


~~~

  


"I don't like it," Ken muttered. "This stinks." 

"I know that, Ken-kun," Omi replied, unperturbed. "I don't trust this myself." Skilled fingers flew over the computer keyboard with familiar ease. "The scraps of information, the vague suggestions, the assorted jumbled-up details... it all sounds plausible. Too plausible, in fact." 

"And nothing connected with Schwarz should be this easy," Aya added. 

Youji said nothing. The scene before him was familiar, with hardly anything to differentiate it from a hundred other mission discussions they had had in this very room. Omi, completely in his 'on-mission' mode, so utterly focused that it was hard to reconcile this dedicated tactician with the sunny-natured boy that laid dual claim to Bombay's character. Ken, serious and intense, ready to give his damned best without holding anything back. And Aya, his eyes thoughtful, devoid of the cold mask he usually donned... No, he could not let his friends down. 

"So... you think this is a trap?" Ken frowned. 

Omi tapped a finger against the monitor thoughtfully. "I would say so, yes. The information I've hacked into is by no means complete, but enough for me to dig out more. Everything _looks_ natural, but if everything really was, it'd be too much of a coincidence that natural slips could provide just sufficient data. Overall, it's targeted almost perfectly at us—difficult, but not _too_ difficult." 

"Why are we reporting this to Kritiker, then? If it's a trap, why should we involve ourselves and Kritiker?" 

"Because it's the best chance we've got," Aya replied shortly. 

Omi chewed his bottom lip before looking up with a wry look. "I know it's probably a trap, Ken-kun, but as Aya-kun said, it's our best shot." 

"Walking into a trap?" 

"There's a difference between walking into a trap blindly, and doing so with eyes open," Aya remarked. 

Ken digested that. "Okay. So we appear to take their bait. Does Kritiker agree?" 

"Manx is coming this evening; we'll know then." Omi headed for the stairs. "That's about all for now, I think. Dinner, guys?" 

  


~~~

  


"A word with you, Schuldig." 

He raised an eyebrow at the brusque request, but stayed behind while the other two left the office. The briefing was over, so what was this about? 

But the American did not begin immediately, instead, he paced the entire length and width of the office, closing all the windows and doors as he passed them—Crawford must be really stressed, Schuldig decided, if he allowed himself to do pointless things like that. "What's up, Brad?" 

Crawford was adjusting the window's shutter, but nearly yanked the whole thing off at that. Schuldig swallowed involuntarily. _Some_one was in big trouble with the precog, and he had an uncomfortably shrewd suspicion that he knew who it was. So he waited. 

"Schuldig, how did Farfarello find out about Weiß's location?" Crawford shot him an irritated look before he asked. "Nagi knows better, and even you wouldn't do something as phenomenally stupid as commit some action that would advertise Schwarz's whereabouts." 

So the American did simple elimination and came up with the residential lunatic. And Crawford was perfectly aware—as was Schuldig—of the fact that Farfarello could hardly have managed that alone. Again, simple elimination came up with the only person who, rationally speaking, could have given that information to Farfarello. 

He managed a derisive smirk. "Is that a real question, Brad?" 

Crawford glared. "On second thought, _why_ you allowed Farfarello to do so is more relevant." 

He should have realised that himself—probably _would_ have if he had not been otherwise distracted—but it was too late now. What he needed—and fast—was an explanation. A plausible explanation that fitted his character. 

Schuldig sighed, and stuck his hands into his pockets. "Look, Crawford, I was bored, okay? I didn't think Weiß was searching for us." 

"You didn't think, period." All the same, the precog seemed to be somewhat satisfied—and no surprise, Schuldig thought wryly. Crawford thrived on knowledge; knowing how Weiß traced Schwarz would leave him one less thing to worry about. 

Turning, Schuldig walked out of the room, letting out a silent sigh of relief as he closed the door behind him. It was a good thing that Crawford was the type that he was; had the American pressed further, he would have been hard put to come up with answers—especially since he did not know them himself. 

What should he do now? 

A familiar, somewhat self-mocking smirk crept up, following that thought. Really, he must have caught the rhetorical questioning virus from Crawford. Since when had what he should do hindered what he did do? 

So... what could he do now? 

Strolling by the window, he paused to look out. The last hints of sunset lingered on the sky, and he knew that if he looked down, he would see the people passing by below: returning after a hectic day of work and simply glad at the prospect of the waiting spouse/dog/hot bath, shopping for pre-cooked dishes because unexpected guests had shown up for dinner, feeling elated after a returned test with flying colours, excited yet apprehensive before a blind date... Common, mundane, everyday thoughts, blissfully ignorant existences—a world that he glimpsed constantly, but to which he could never belong. 

Schuldig drew the curtains. 

  


~~~

  


"Ready, guys?" Omi strapped the last of his darts in place. Ran wondered why the younger assassin ever bothered asking; had they had any hesitations, they would have backed out long ago. "Shall we go?" 

Wordlessly, the four of them filed downstairs. As he started the car, Ran frowned to himself. Something in the atmosphere felt different; nothing tangible, just different from all other mission nights. 

Well, that was understandable. This _was_ an unusual mission. 

Ran concentrated on driving, and driving alone. The next thing he knew, the mansion that was to be their battleground loomed into sight. The probably false information from Schwarz's files mentioned something about obtaining some documents that had been hidden on the mansion grounds before WWII, documents that might provide classified information on SS in its early days—in other words, information that the organisation naturally did not want its subordinates to know. A plausible mission—but probably fake. 

Still not speaking, they exited the car. 

  


~~~

  


"They are here." 

These were the only words Crawford spoke. 

Without a second thought (though whether he had ever gone as far as the first was debatable), Schuldig launched himself into action. This was just a job. 

Just. A. Job. 

He zeroed in onto the first Weiß member he saw. Siberian's eyes were fierce as he met his attack, and something in them looked almost glad at the upcoming fight. Like Farfarello, almost. 

Good. _That_ should keep his mind off other stuff; sparring with Farfarello always did. 

He was vaguely aware of the fights that had started, all over the place. Nagi was facing off Bombay outside—surprise was dominant in that one's mind: not seeing Nagi in any of the recent encounters had led to the half-formed hope/conclusion that the telekinetic was no longer around—while Farfarello and Abyssinian went against each other elsewhere, blade for blade. That left Crawford with Yo—Balinese. That fight was more or less even, for now. Still, Crawford _was_ a good shot, and if— 

Searing pain tore through his arm, reminding him that he had his own opponent to see to. Siberian wore a feral grin, charging again, but Schuldig veered off in time easily this round. 

All the same, that arm hurt like hell; he spared a look—the claws had torn right to the bone. Damn. 

Two shots rang out with little warning, startling both of them into stepping back, for a moment. 

And a moment was long enough for Crawford to get there from—from wherever he had been. "What do you think you're doing?" the American hissed. "See to your wound; I'll hold them off for now." His tone promised a scathing lecture afterwards, but right now, Crawford was holding his anger in check—the job had higher priority. "And call Nagi here." 

"Alright." 'Here' was the entrance hall of the mansion itself. Nagi and Bombay were out in the garden grounds the last time he checked. Stepping back from the immediate vicinity of the fight, Schuldig checked again. Yes, those two minds were still there. Seizing Nagi's, he bashed through the shields—the kid tended to be distracted while employing his powers, a habit he had not managed to break yet—and projected an image of Crawford against both Siberian and Balinese into the kid's head. 

That done, he tuned back into reality—and saw Crawford being backed into a corner by the combined efforts of both Weiß assassins. 

Bloody. Hell. 

He picked up a gun that Crawford had dropped (the precog always brought at least three when there was any chance of fighting) and aimed with his good hand. That was his off hand, though—Siberian's claws had left their marks on his right arm—and his grasp was not as firm as it might have been otherwise. 

Which was partially why the gun flew off his hand, snatched away by nearly invisible wires. 

Agonised green eyes met his own in that moment, even as the wires came straight at him. 

  


~~~

  


Omi stared at the retreating back of the Schwarz telekinetic for a moment, confused. Naoe had the upper hand, hadn't he? Why did he break off the fight? 

Frankly, Omi had not expected to see the telekinetic here at all; he had half-counted on that—big mistake. Rating by fighting prowess alone, that deceptively slender-looking young man had to be the most deadly of the lot. Which was why Omi had not tried to call for aid or join the others fighting in the mansion itself—if _he_ was here, so was Naoe, and that meant his teammates did not have to contend with this one. 

Scrambling to his feet, Omi firmly told his bruises and aches to take a long vacation, and forced himself to chase after the telekinetic. That Naoe left so suddenly could mean only one thing: that the Schwarz members inside the building had called for reinforcement—and _that_ meant Omi had to be there too, to even the scales in Weiß's favour. 

Breaking into the building through an open ground floor window, he spied ferocious fighting ahead, and hurried on. 

In the entrance hall, Youji and Ken were fending off Crawford and Schuldig, in no particular order—from afar, everything looked like one grand melee. 

But Nagi's arrival was about to change that. And the Japanese youth was already there, raising his hand. 

Oh no. "Youji-kun! Watch out!" 

The pillar shook with the impact. 

Omi bit his lower lip. Where was Aya? Fighting with Farfarello, no doubt; that left them three against three here—wait, make it two versus two. From the corner of his eye, he saw Youji getting back to his feet, wires flying—and backing Schuldig down a side corridor, one narrow enough that, with the wires lashing out at full force, even the impossibly fast mindreader could not get past them to make his escape. Great. No immediate worries there, at least. 

That left Ken and himself against the precog and the telekinetic. 

Great. 

"Siberian, let's get out of here." 

"What?" 

He did not reply, but dashed for the nearest window. This was something he had not been thinking about—something he had forced himself _not_ to think about, because Schwarz had a mindreader. "Quick, Ken-kun!" 

It was probably because of their many years of working together that Ken trusted his directions, illogical as they might seem. As his old friend touched down on the ground outside, Omi activated the first of the controls sewn onto his jacket for this mission. 

The wall behind them _shook_, even as a wave of heat rolled out, washing over the two of them. 

"Bomb?" Ken whispered. 

"Radio-activated bombs," he grinned. 

"When did we plant—" 

"We didn't." His grin grew wider. "We _are_ backed by Kritiker, remember?" _That_ had been one of his reasons for bringing their organisation into what was, after all, more of a private feud between Weiß and Schwarz. He didn't tell the other three, though—it was hard enough for one person not to think about it and thus slip the information out to Schwarz; with four, that would be impossible. 

"What about Aya? And Youji?" 

"Aya-kun's not in the building, and I'm not activating the explosives in the direction Youji-kun took." He pressed a few more controls, effectively sealing the mansion's entrance hall from all sides. "Now, let's get on with our end of it." 

  


~~~

  


They were alone now, alone with each other. Youji kicked the door shut with his heel before leaning back against it, his body sagging to fit its stolid, unyielding surface. Across the room, Schuldig had taken an almost identical stance, leaning against the window in the corner. The room was silent, save for their harsh breathing, fresh from the exertions of the fight. 

The fight, which was still continuing beyond this room that they had entered, out of sight. 

He closed his eyes, wearily. How long more? How much more of this could he take? 

"Are your ribs okay? You got bashed into the wall just now." Quiet. Casual. So natural that it became unnatural. 

"A few got cracked; nothing broken, though." His reply felt stuck in his throat, yet the words, when they finally forced themselves out, sounded damned automatic. "And your arm?" 

A familiar, somewhat wry chuckle. "Didn't think you'd notice; it wasn't half as spectacular as your injury was." 

He looked up at last. Tumultuous blue eyes met his gaze for one stunned moment before jerking away. "Schul—" 

"Enough!" Schuldig burst out suddenly. "It's over, remember?" A pause, but the Schwarz member rushed on before he could reply. "No, scrap that; nothing's over. There never was anything to begin with." 

"There never was anything," he echoed, his voice hollow. "Remember our cicada?" 

"_Our_?" 

He ignored that. "I guess its song is over." 

Silence, then Schuldig sighed and slouched into a convenient chair, the hysterical energy of a few moments ago deserting him as abruptly as it had appeared. "Yeah... I guess so." The normally smooth voice was tired and raw with emotions, each one complex, all conflicting—distinguishing even one from the multitude would be impossible. 

He did not reply; he had nothing to say to that. All that they were doing now was waiting—waiting for the inevitable, neither wishing to initiate it—how long would the deadlock last? Without anything better to do, he dropped his gaze to study the pattern of shadows on the floor. The room was filled with moonlight, almost like the night when they went out to observe the cicada nymph—almost. It was over now; if ever there was a chance in the first place. 

Some moving shadow caught his eye, sailing through the air/floor. What was it? Looking up, he stared—and tensed. "Schuldig, watch out!" 

Even as he spoke, he knew it was too late—the glass of the windowpane shattered before his last words was fully out of his mouth. 

The orange-haired young man turned, but only in time to see the gleaming katana bury itself into his body. 

Youji wasn't sure what he would have done next, given the choice—but he wasn't given one. Aya was standing before him between one breath and next, the familiar smell of blood and leather surrounding him. "Are you all right?" 

"How—" he faltered, unsure of what to ask. 

"I heard from Omi that you two went this way, after I knocked out Farfarello; wasn't sure if I could catch him unaware, but figured that he might have his attention elsewhere." Aya spoke rapidly, fast enough that he could barely comprehend them, numb as he suddenly was. "What was it? Mind-control?" 

He blinked, trying to think of a rational reply—but apparently his blank stare had been answer enough for his teammate. The redhead was supporting him carefully. "How do you feel now? I heard you met the telekinetic." 

He managed a half-hearted grin. "I'll live, Aya. Thanks." Craning his neck, he pushed his old friend to one side gently, moving him out of his direct line of vision. 

Only a small pool of blood marked where Schuldig last stood. 

"Damn, he got away," Aya muttered, retrieving the blood-splattered blade that he had thrown just now. "Youji, get out of here." 

"What? Why?" 

"Omi just told me that he's detonating explosives around the place. We're hoping to trap Schwarz inside, and that means we can't hold back anything." A gloved hand settled on his shoulder urgently. "This place is going to turn hotter than Hell soon; let's move." 

He brushed that hand aside. "In a moment, Aya." What exactly did he mean by that? "Go on first; I'll join you guys outside." Where did he want to go? He didn't know that, either. 

Amethyst eyes held his gaze for a moment, as though their owner was unsure of the right course of action. 

He did not wait. "Ja, Abyssinian." 

  


~~~

  


Ran frowned slightly, a wry expression crossing his face. Youji knew his habits too well, didn't he? Somehow, Youji always knew when he could get away without having Ran going after him. Not doing so in time, anyway. 

But what was Youji after? Ran had no idea; at least, he thought so. 

"Abyssinian? Is Balinese with you?" 

He adjusted his grip on the katana, still dripping the Schwarz mindreader's blood, and activated the speaker. "Abyssinian speaking, Bombay. Balinese isn't here." 

"I'll reach him. You have to get out quickly yourself." The mansion's foundations shook—again—even as they spoke. Omi's voice grew terser. "_Now_, Abyssinian. Out." 

Ran nodded absently as the line went dead, noting the wind direction and the flames that had begun to lick the walls in some wings. There was no time to lose; he had already wasted too much with Youji just now, when he should have been concentrating on dragging the older assassin out of this place. Well, too late for that now. 

Taking a deep breath, Ran plunged into the blackening fumes. Waiting here would do no good, and neither would chasing after his teammate now, when he had no idea where Youji went. 

Damn it all, Youji had better come out of this in one piece. 

  


~~~

  


The cursed wounds _hurt_. 

Agony poured forth from the fresh cuts on his arm, and the still fresher stab on his shoulder burned ferociously. Within his body, everything converged at some point; everything was just white-hot pain. 

Schuldig grimaced through the haze that threatened to cloud over his mind. It had been ages since he felt injuries of this magnitude firsthand. None of it was fatal by itself, but if left unattended—like he was doing now— 

Every step sent another jolt of pain up his raw nerves, but he pressed on anyway. He had to. Crawford and the rest of his teammates were busy trying to get out themselves, he knew that from a brief mental scan—and damned if he was going to yell for help like some dependent... he would get out of this place by himself. 

Turning down a corridor, he almost collided head on with another. "Schuldig?" Arms caught him before his legs gave up in sheer relief. 

Green eyes met his own when he lifted his head, filled with anxious concern. "Are you okay?" 

He froze. "Balinese." Gripping at the wall behind him, he forced himself to straighten, pushing the other young man away with his free hand. "Why are you here?" 

Youji stepped back, and his arms fell to his sides. "I... I'm not sure. But I can't leave without knowing if you survived Aya's attack." 

"Well, I have. So?" His words fell harshly. "Are you here to end it all? Your teammates certainly want to." And... if it came down to that—which looked very possible right now—he would rather be killed by Youji than any of the other Weiß members. 

The blond young man sighed. "Schuldig, you _know_ I won't do that." 

He blinked. Youji had dropped his mental shields—the ones that _he_ had taught the other to build—and, mind to mind, he knew that Youji wasn't lying. 

Moreover, he saw that Youji's mind was as full of conflict as his own: Loyalty? Friendship? Sides? Black and white? Or a murky grey? 

Youji produced a roll of bandages from somewhere to staunch the blood on his shoulder. "I'm sorry about that." 

He grinned humourlessly, watching the Weiß assassin perform first aid with skill honed from years of practice. "Your teammate meant well—for you, anyway." 

"And your teammates, too," Youji said with equal dryness. "But I can't stand by and watch mine get hurt, and neither can you." 

"Which means, sooner or later, we'll have to pit ourselves against each other." Smoke was starting to come down the corridor. He opened the nearest door that led into some room and entered, with Youji right behind him. The heavy door would provide some temporary barrier against the fire, and that would have to do—whatever they had to talk about, they had to say it now, before the outside world intruded and they became Schwarz and Weiß once more. "I don't want to, I—" He paused, surprised at himself. Did he really mean that? "I can't," he whispered at last, wonderingly. "I can't kill you." 

Youji closed his eyes briefly. The image that flared across into Schuldig's own mind was a replay of their Christmas Eve, so very long ago. "We've come too far to back out," was said softly. 

"That's true," he agreed, his mind numb—then tensed as Youji's arms wrapped around him tightly. "Youji—" 

"Don't," Youji whispered achingly. "Don't." 

Don't what? 

But he did not ask it out aloud; he knew the answer. All too well. 

Fumes had begun to seep through the slim space below the door, and, from the corner of his eye, he could see flames licking the window. He had studied the layouts of the mansion before the mission, and knew that this wing faced an inner courtyard, with no way out. If they hurried, they _might_ still be able to get out, with Youji's wires—but what then? 

"When we leave, we'll be enemies again," Youji muttered, echoing his own line of thought almost perfectly. 

And he would have nothing left except memories, bittersweet memories of the light-filled world he had touched once—but could never forget. One more regret to the precarious scales of cynicism versus insanity that he had sustained until recently. 

And... he was too tired. 

"Then, let's stay here." 

In response, Youji pulled off his transmitter and crushed it under his heel. "Let's." 

  


~~~

  


It was past midnight now; the darkest hour, usually. 

Crawford took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with care, the familiar routine helping him to calm down. Some distance below, the mansion was burning like a lit torch now, lighting up half the sky. Specks of ash rose up with the hot air, irritating him, but he did not move from his vantage spot; he was still waiting. 

Nagi stood beside him, expressionless as always. What was the boy thinking about? Crawford wondered that sometimes, but he was Crawford and he did not ask. Farfarello was just coming to, having been literally dragged through hellfire by Nagi's powers just now as they got out. It had been that close. 

And Schuldig was nowhere to be seen or heard. 

"No sigh yet, Nagi?" 

The telekinetic shook his head. "He hasn't attempted to communicate at all since the bombs started; the last contact was when he called me to give you a hand." A slight crease had begun to form on that smooth brow. So.. was Nagi worried? Quiet and rational as usual—but Nagi seldom spoke except when it was a direct response to a question, in conversations with him, anyway. 

"Do you think he's still in there?" The question surprised him. Stupid. Why and how did he blurt it out? 

"I don't know... I doubt it, though." Nagi's eyes were on some distant point. "If he's really stuck inside, he'd contact me to open up some sort of path for him through the fire." 

Crawford started mentally. Something about the way Nagi phrased it made him uncomfortable. Normally he would have dismissed such trivialities, but his failure to predict the bombs in time still weighed heavily on his mind, and he dared not let anything through—how _did_ he make such a colossal slip? He doubted if he could ever forgive himself completely regarding that. 

"On the other hand," Nagi continued—without prompting; he must be really concerned. "Schuldig should contact us after he gets out. Perhaps he's distracted." 

He opened his mouth to reply, then shut it with an audible snap as a vision—one of the clearest and most vivid that he had ever had—assaulted him. 

"Let's go, Nagi. Carry Farfarello with you." Turning, he made for the car they had parked, a (hopefully safe) distance away. 

"We aren't waiting for Schuldig?" Surprise flickered over otherwise impassive eyes. 

His expression turned grim, and he did not stop or look back. "We're not. Now move." 

Because... there was no one to wait for. 

Schuldig, what the hell are you thinking? 

  


~~~

  


"He's _what_?" 

"I said, his signal's simply _gone_!" Omi's voice was growing shrill as it became more frantic. "And without pinpointing his location, it'll be suicidal for us to barge back in there!" The three of them were standing together, next to their car. Behind them, flames roared and ran rampant through the mansion's grounds, so much so that the heavens themselves seemed ablaze. 

Ken turned to look back. Omi was right. Hell, it was probably close to suicidal even if they knew exactly where Youji was, inside there. Even here, the heat was growing unbearable. "Maybe the fire disturbed the signals." 

"Kritiker's electronic equipment had all been through extreme tests," Omi snapped. "Even if the speaker's switched off, I should still be able to detect it!" Against the fiery backdrop, his face was a constantly conflicting mess of light and shadows. Ordinarily blue eyes appeared to be burning in one moment and murky in the next. "But—Youji-kun's signal's just gone..." 

Aya had said nothing all this while, Ken noted, glancing covertly at his redhead teammate. Of all of them, Aya was the last to have seen Youji—right before the older assassin went off to goodness-knows-where. "Aya?" 

Blank violet eyes met him. Ken swallowed. He _hated_ it when Aya pulled the storm shutters over his so-called windows to the soul. "Yes, Ken?" 

"You okay?" 

For a moment it looked as though Aya was going to laugh, then the redhead snapped back into control. "Yes." Like Ken himself, he also turned to gaze at the burning mansion. "I wasn't sure whether I should chase after him when he left... I think he knew that. He usually does." 

"Yeah," Ken agreed, only half-listening. "Omi?" 

"Still no sign." The younger boy was visibly torn. "And guys, we can't stay." 

"_What_?" He would have went on further, but Aya clapped a hand on his shoulder warningly. 

"We have no choice, Ken." The usually cool voice was now utterly, coldly emotionless. "We have to go." 

"Like hell—" He broke off. Inwardly, he goddamned well _knew_ that he was being unreasonable. The other two didn't want to leave their teammate behind any more than he did—but what else could they do? "Fine. We go." 

  


~~~

  


Heedless of injuries, they pressed into each other, holding on tightly, as though hanging on to each's last anchor. There wasn't much air left around them, consumed by the raging flames, but they didn't care. Really, if one got down to it, what was actually worth caring about? Not much. What was worth fretting over? Even less. 

"Schuldig." 

"Hmm?" 

"Remember what you asked me once? About whether I believe in Heaven and Hell." 

"Sure. Last Christmas." 

"I think I'll believe. Hell's probably the only place available to both of us." 

"So, we'll go together?" 

"Deal." 

"Deal." 

  


~~~

  


"_'La commedia è finita'_?" The elderly artisan read carefully, his expression puzzled. "What's that?" 

"It doesn't matter. Just engrave it," Crawford replied shortly, then turned and walked out of the shop to his car, parked along the road. Nagi was waiting for him inside, although he had no idea why he ever wanted to come along. The Japanese boy had hardly spoken, since... 

He had expected some pain, when it first happened, not now. But pain, when it came, seeped in slowly—and the ache was only growing worse. Eventually he would get over it, of course, but when would that be? 

_"Pragmatic as always, Crawford."_ The painfully familiar voice laughed teasingly in his mind. For a moment, he practically _saw_ the smirking German, attired in his favourite green jacket and wearing the outrageously clashing yellow bandana that only he could get away with—but the moment flickered and died. _"Lighten up, Brad."_

Shut up, Schuldig, and don't call me that. 

_"Why not, Braddy-kins? You look too young not to use your first name," the mindreader grinned carelessly, but there was a challenge in those lazy yet cold blue eyes. "Take off those spectacles, and you can pass for a high school prefect." _

"All the more reason for me to keep them on." 

Yes, that was how the don't-call-me-that issue first started, long ago. Their first meeting, in fact. 

Crawford gritted his teeth, and shoved the memories as far back as he could. If this had been an actual mental conversation, shielding would have sufficed—but it was not, and he could hardly shield against his own mind. 

And his mind _would_ insist on replaying these scenes. 

Nagi gave him a brief nod as he got into the car. "Done?" 

"Done. The plaque will be ready tomorrow." He started the car. 

"What does that line mean, anyway?" 

"'The comedy is finished.' Italian play or opera, I think." [2] 

"That sounds like what Schuldig would choose," the telekinetic murmured, then glanced sideways at him. "You chose it?" 

"No, he did. Although I don't think he remembered it." He adjusted the back view mirror with one hand, keeping most of his attention on navigating Tokyo's traffic. "Or, if he did, he probably thought I forgot." 

After all, that had been years ago. 

_Schuldig chuckled as he laid down a book. In all the time Crawford had known the exasperating young man, he was seldom seen without a book in his free time. Literature, history, science—name any topic, and Schuldig could probably sustain an intelligent conversation on it. And the stranger the subject, the better. The mindreader had an inordinate obsession with reading irrelevant things. "Hey, Brad." _

"Don't call me that." 

"Yeah, sure." Schuldig didn't bother to sound sincere. "Have you ever thought about what to put on your tombstone? You know, last words and stuff." 

"No." Why would he? If he was already dead, he wouldn't care, would he? Besides, they were underworld agents. What's the chance of a proper burial—with an actual body? 

"Well, listen to this guy's last words: 'God will forgive me, it is his business.' [3] I got a sudden urge to stamp this on Farfarello's grave—only I suspect he'd rise from the dead just to get back at me for that." 

"Possible." He held the newspaper a little higher. It was almost always a mistake to reply—Schuldig usually managed to drag him into pointless conversations like this one. He wanted to end this. 

Schuldig got the hint, of course—but he clearly didn't care. "What would you choose, Brad?" 

"Nothing." That should end the conversation. Hopefully. 

"Know what I'd like?" 

Obviously not. "No." 

"I don't either." The German was out to be irritating today. "But let me see... 'He that dies pays all debts'? [4] Hell, no. I'd rather short change death, thanks all the same. Oh yes, this one: 'La commedia è finita.' Short and crisp, no?" 

He went on perusing the news. 

"Ah well, guess you've never heard of that line. It's the closing line of the play I was reading the other day." 

"I didn't know you speak Italian." 

"I read a translation—but who wants a translation for an epitaph? Oi, Brad, are you listening?" 

He ignored it, and the mindreader finally shrugged it off, settling down on a couch. "Never mind, I was feeling whimsical." 

Schuldig... 

His knuckles were white when he noticed them, and he had to force his hands to relax. Damn. If he had any desire right now, it was to punch that smirking bastard in the mouth. How dared he leave? Schuldig being irritating, Nagi stolid, Farfarello unpredictably predictable, and himself forcing the inevitable chaos into some semblance of order—all part of the same comfortingly familiar routine. How dared Schuldig change that? 

"Crawford." Nagi was looking straight ahead. 

"Yes?" 

"What did you see that night?" They both knew what night Nagi was referring to. "You had a vision." 

"That doesn't concern you." He wasn't ready to think about it himself; he would probably never be. 

"Okay." The youngest member of Schwarz drew back from the topic. "By the way, I've booked the air tickets." 

He nodded, but made no reply. There was nothing to reply about; Nagi always accomplished his assigned tasks perfectly. 

Tomorrow, after collecting the plaque he had ordered to Schuldig's specifications, Schwarz would leave Japan. It was time to leave, before SS found their tracks here—at least, that was what he told himself. 

"Crawford," Nagi spoke again after a long pause, as they neared their safe house. "We aren't ever coming back to Japan, are we?" He sounded resigned. 

"Probably not." 

  


~~~

  


It was a sober group that gathered in the cemetery that grey morning. The three of them were there, of course, as was Manx. That wasn't really all that surprising; as the main link between their team and Kritiker, she knew each of them well enough to come voluntarily. Omi carried a bunch of cattleyas, Youji's favourite flower. The hole had already been dug. It wasn't very large, though—after all, there was no coffin. No body. Not in a recognisable state, anyway. 

After the fire burned out, the three of them had returned to the site, along with Kritiker's cleaning crew. Battered up and bandaged—but the doctors who tried to advise them to rest could all hang themselves for all they cared. They _had_ to know what happened to their teammate. 

Ran closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the sight that finally greeted their eyes when the cleaning crew excavated to the centre of the site, where a room had collapsed onto itself—like most of the rest during the fire—and, buried underneath all the rubble... 

The two bodies were twined together so closely that they appeared to be one entity, at first glance. Physical identification was impossible, but various tests confirmed that one of the two was their missing teammate. The other body matched no records, and they could only conclude that it was a member of Schwarz. That the deceased member was not the Japanese young man was all they could conclude, from the body's height. 

"He fought to the last." Ken's somewhat awed whisper jerked Ran back to the present. In the soccer-lover's hands lay the urn that carried the cremated remains—indeed, most of the two bodies disintegrated into ash the moment the crew tried to move them. The box probably contained some of the Schwarz member's remains, too, but that could not be helped. Kneeling, Ken placed the urn into the waiting hole carefully. 

"That he did." Omi's response was equally soft. Both bodies had had their arms around the other's neck. Kritiker had concluded in the end that both parties, doubtlessly worn down by earlier injuries, had finally resorted to fighting hand-to-hand and then strangulation. "Youji-kun..." 

Ran picked up a shovel, saying nothing. There was a lot that he could say, but nothing seemed right. 

Mutely, they began covering the urn with soil. 

"_'While the light lasts I shall remember, and in the darkness I shall not forget,'_" [5] Manx murmured under her breath, tracing the words on the tombstone. "I wonder what he meant by that." 

Ken looked up with a wry smile. "Who knows? He never mentioned what he chose for his epitaph to us—not to me, anyway. Omi? Aya?" 

"Me neither." Omi added the last bit of soil, which covered the urn completely, his movement slow and dragged. 

"Same." Ran patted the loose earth in place with the smooth side of his shovel. 

It was an arrangement that Kritiker had for all its field agents, that. A confidential list of things the agent wanted done on the occasion that he or she died in action—it could be modified at any time, and requests were permitted to total no more than a specified sum in monetary terms. The exact figure differed depending on the nature of the job, but from what they heard, an assassin's sum was one of the largest. 

All that Youji had requested for was a proper burial and this epitaph. 

Having flattened the soil before the tombstone, they stepped back, and Omi picked up the bouquet. This was their last bunch of cattleyas; the flower shop had ceased ordering them, since... that. 

The cattleyas, blooming luxuriously, were laid down gently on the newly upturned earth. 

Omi turned to face them, his expression undecipherable. "Let's go, guys. Manx, are you coming along?" 

Persia's secretary nodded. "I have to brief you on your new arrangement; Persia has approved Weiß's request to be placed on mobile." 

"Fine." The rationale behind their request never came into question; everyone, including Manx, knew why Weiß wanted to leave Tokyo. 

  


~~~

  


Some weeks later, Ran, taking a break from driving their new M-Cat [6], found himself alone in the main living area of the van. Ken was driving, and Omi was busy at the back, familiarising himself with the van's telecommunicating devices. As was usual nowadays, his idle mind went through bits and pieces of conversation, from a winter afternoon the year before. 

_"I don't think he meant any harm." _

"It's just him... I don't know what to think." 

"I won't betray Weiß, Aya." 

Gazing at the scenery that flashed by outside the van's window, Ran noted bemusedly that summer was almost over. Leaves had started to mellow overhead, and lately, during the nights when they parked off the expressway in the countryside, between destinations, he had heard fewer cicadas, that symbol of summer. 

_"He fought to the last,"_ Ken had said. Indeed, the two bodies had been close together, so close that they could be mistaken for one. Fighting? Or... 

Sometimes, Ran wondered. 

  


~~~

  


[1]: Okay, confession time: I borrowed this joke from _my_ literature teacher. Apparently he really wrote it on some poor lout's essay. According to him, anyway, but he likes to be entertaining, and I personally won't swear to the authenticity of that tale. 

[2]: That's 'I Pagliacci' (The Clowns) by Ruggiero Leoncavallo, 1892. I _think_ it's an Italian opera... *sweatdrops* What? Have I seen/read it myself? Obviously not. 

[3]: The chap in question is Heinrich Heine, d. 1856. 

[4]: From 'The Tempest' by William Shakespeare. Okay, I know I've had my characters quote the Bard way too often... ^^;; 

[5]: *sweatdrops* Gomen, I don't know the source for this one... I got it off Agatha Christie's 'While the Light Lasts', which is a collection of her earlier literary attempts, and one of the short stories used this line. From the way it was said, though, I got the impression that the character was quoting—and I don't know from where! __ I hate it when I can't identify the source. (yeah, I'm obsessed about identifications; if you've followed all the footnotes so far, you should have noticed that for yourself...) If you know, please (x n times, n approaching infinity; so sue me, I'm a double maths student) mail me! 

[6]: M-Cat = multipurpose-communication advanced transporter, according to the OVA Gakken Mook. 


	7. Afterword

**Afterword**

Whoo... *lets out long sigh* Finally, I'm done! All in all, the fic has taken me—(counts from 7th Dec 2k2 to 7th June 2k3) wow, half a year exactly! (Okay, now's the time to launch into all the I've to thank blah blah blah for where I've got to today... never mind. I don't think anyone would be interested in that, & in any case, I'm not really given to writing mushy lines where anybody can read them, so there.) 

(muse: then what's this afterword for? if it's a conclusion you'd have named it epilogue.) 

Well, yeah... I would have. 

So, I guess this would be where I ramble on about how I wrote the fic, & how I interpreted various characters + relationships in this fic's context. If you aren't interested in that sort of stuff, feel free to stop reading now. 

Anyone left? Hello? 

Ah well, I'll probably be ranting to myself. Sure, I do that all the time—sometimes even out aloud. (muse: *rolls eyes* only child... latchkey kids nowadays... sylphide: oh shush, that's neither here nor there.) 

  


~~~

  


= Youji & Schuldig = 

Since they're the main characters in 'Cicada', I'll chat about these two first. 

When I first mentioned to a friend that's I'm writing this pairing—& rating it R in all honesty—she called me a stinky liar. ^^;; Okay, I admit, most fics concerning _one_ of the two sex symbols invariably contain a lemon scene... I'm writing both of them together—& no horizontal action takes place? O.O In my previous incarnation in WK fandom (under a different pen name—if you can identify who that is, you're smart. ;) I've changed my style/outlook since then) I wrote enough lemon scenes to be called the yaoi sensei by my friends. They still don't believe I've turned over a new leaf since then... (muse: you haven't. . ) Well, yeah, I've my reason for abstaining from lemon in general for now, & I don't plan to go into it here—as it is, I've rambled out of point for too long. 

Anyway. 

In this fic's context, I'm interpreting both of them as people who put on facades in their dealings in everyday life. Youji knew damned well that he was pretending, but he preferred it just the way it was—at the beginning of the fic, anyway. I've read portrayals of him as a true playboy, but personally, I think it's all part of his elaborate cover-up. Oh, he's flamboyant, & he exaggerates his sexual exploits—yet, how often have we actually seen evidence of him indulging in one night stands? Just too proud to let others—people whom he knew would care—notice when he was hurting. And Schuldig? He pretended too—he's not quite the bastard he liked to appear—but I think he seriously didn't realise it at times. He's caught up in being the guilty one. 

See all the potential angst material piling up, kids? ^o^ 

When those two met—I mean when they actually meet & get to know each other, aside from clashes in battle—I like to think that it's one of those pairings that could really work out; their personalities could really compliment each other. Straying from WK for I moment, allow me to mention that I'm also a fan of another manga series, Get Backers, & in it, one of the characters remarked (about the two main characters, Ban & Ginji—loyal friends, each complete with his own messed-up past) that the gaping hole in one's heart can only be filled by another with a similar ache. I think this can also be applied to Youji & Schuldig's relationship in Cicada. They aren't drawn together because one feels the innocence/hope/strength in the other & is attracted like a moth to a flame—they are attracted because they both have something missing in their hearts, & as they come closer, the gap in each's starts to fill. (That, by the way, is one reason why I didn't write sex into this relationship in particular: it's an _equal_ relationship, dammit—frankly, I've no idea who can top who. ^.~ Another reason is that smut & deathfic do _not_ go together in sylphide's dictionary.) 

As their relationship progressed, sex—or even physical attraction, for that matter—didn't really come into the equation. They were more like friends—friends who can share everything except reality. And all along, I think both were dimly aware of the fact that what they had could not last; but neither wanted to probe that. Not until circumstances forced them into it. It was a situation full of questions and problems; they just chose to ignore all of them, by mutual silent agreement. 

I liked writing about them just being pals—you know, talking about random stuff, tossing the cookie jar over, and so on. To be comfortable enough to just hang out, without trying to assert each's comfortingly safe masks... that wasn't easy, for either of them. 

And when I finally had to kill them off... T.T On one level, I really didn't want to: outside circumstances aside, I think they _could_ have worked out... pals like that are damned rare. (if you have one, treasure him/her. I mean it.) On another level, though, I knew it was impossible, given the set of circumstances. They _were_ Weiß and Schwarz—and the way the two teams' dynamics worked, clashes between them were inevitable. So... *sighs* Killing them was painful. 

At least, though, they were together in death. I hope that's something. 

What's the Greek term for it? Catharsis? 

  


~~~

  


= Ran & Youji = 

If Schuldig wasn't on the scene... Ran & Youji might have worked something out eventually. I like writing Ran a lot, & I think his personality is similar to Youji's in some ways—more similar than either Ken or Omi would be, anyway. Both of them are capable of feeling things intensely—but under most circumstances, neither would show anything. As I see it, Ran's the kind who'd tell his friends to get lost with his dying breath—while Youji would probably joke & make light of his situation until he pass out forever. 

Under similar circumstances, would the other members of Weiß have chosen the path Youji did in the end? I don't think Omi would; he's more rational than that—he may hurt for ages afterwards, but ultimately, he puts his head before his feelings. Ken? He's hot-blooded enough... maybe he would—only I don't think he'd allow himself to get involved with a Schwarz member in the first place. Ran... I'm not sure. I really don't know. He'd _understand_ where Youji's coming from, I think—something that the two younger assassins probably wouldn't. I doubt if Omi would see why Youji would choose death, & Ken would hardly sympathise with falling for the enemy. As for whether he'd do the same... *shrugs* But I think he understood—although he probably didn't want to discuss it further; there was no point in probing that vein. 

_Sometimes, Ran wondered._

I think he's the only one who would. 

  


~~~

  


= Crawford & Nagi = 

_"Schwarz comes first; you know that." _

"Oh yes I do—and Nagi knows it better, I think." The younger man stood up and made for the door. "Besides, has it ever occurred to you that he'd take whatever shit you dish out, even when he's personally against it? Ease it; you don't need to push him the way you push me." 

Part IV earned the remark that Crawford is unfeeling. *uncomfortable look* I don't think he really is... he just likes to convince himself that. As I see it, (& as I wrote it... hey, I like to quote myself. ^.~) he tries to reduce everything to the rational level of cause & effect, the level where stuff like emotions play no part. When he _does_ allow himself to reveal anything, it's probably in the form of lashing out at others, in times of great stress. As for nicer feelings... the most he ever showed explicitly was a silent thanks to Nagi—& that was in response to something Nagi did for the team. I doubt that he'd allow anything done for _him_—it'd make him uncomfortable, that. Few ever enjoy feeling that they owe others, & Crawford most definitely doesn't belong there. 

Now, Nagi... Crawford's, in a way, the pillar of his world. No, I _don't_ think there's any sexual undertone there. He simply accepts the American as the rightful dictator of his life: if Crawford wants something done, he'd do it. Finito. He has his own opinions, but he seldom argued for his own stand against the leader of Schwarz. Please don't think that I'm writing him as a pushover—at least, I don't think I am—he simply keeps his own feelings out of the equation when it comes to decisions. 

  


~~~

  


= Omi = 

*shifting uncomfortably* Dunno... I've always been uncomfortable about writing Omi. From what I'm read, fanfic portrayals of him can usually be grouped under one of two headings: 'Angelic Omi' and 'Takatori Omi'. The former puts him as the innocent kind chibi, but... personally, I find his 100-watt grin unsettling. He may be only 17 years old, but he's been raised as a killer—a killer who effectively separates his daytime occupation from his night one. He goes to school & he pays attention; he works at the flower shop & he cares about its profit or lack of; he kills at night & tries to do a good job of it, too! In some way, I got the impression that to him, all these are tasks & he should do his best for all of them. The other Weiß members angst about killing & definitely rank the flowershop business way below their night time profession when it comes to prioritising—Omi views them with the same equanimity. He cares openly for his teammates, & I don't think it ever occurred to him that there's anything ironical about killers caring for one another. I don't think it's about different points of view or perspectives anymore, his very mentality—the way he thinks, the way his mind works—is vastly different from his three teammates, who, up to the point when they got dumped into the underworld, led relatively mundane normal lives. (muse: go on along this vein much longer, & you'd start planning a Farfarello x Omi fic... sylphide: erm... I've received that request before... from an Omi fan, no less... O_o) 

Oh, then there's Omi's obsession about justice. 'Never forgive the bad ones'. Hello? Does that sound like what a 17-year-old would say? Or a 6-year-old? Sometimes I think a part of him never grew up & just stayed a kid—kids tend to view the world in absolutes, & of the four Weiß members, he's probably the only one who actually sees the distinction between Weiß and Schwarz—& note, he's the only one in Episode 20 (the psycho lawyer episode... at least, that's how I think of it) who griped with the idea of justice. The rest have probably resigned themselves to the fact that they are just murderers, but not Omi. Justice remains to him an ideal that Weiß is working for. (although, personally, I think it got degraded to power play between the Takatori brothers... ) Omi sees black & white, not grey. 

_"Aya-kun?" His voice was thin and tired. _

"Yes?" 

"Can you tell me how to get mad?" 

Erm... I distilled that particular problem from real life... ^^;; Actually, it's a problem that _I_ have. I grew up in a home environment with parents who never fought, never argued—not in front of me, anyway—and seldom even raised their voices at each other. When they scolded me, they were rational about it, too—how this is irresponsible, how that can be improved... It hit me one day that I had no idea how to blow up. When I get angry, I just feel angry—but most people don't even notice it. Screaming or yelling doesn't let out any steam for me. I don't get upset very easily, but when I do, I don't know how to let it out. Punch the pillow, yeah, sure, that's ridiculous. Anyway, given Omi's rational mindset & his uncommon upbringing, I think it's quite likely that he never had much exposure to raw emotions, either. So, I gave him that. 

  


~~~

  


= Farfarello = 

A fascinating character, my regret here is that I didn't get to dwell on him as much as I'd have liked—it'd distract the plot too much. Farfarello is in a league of his own, and he needs a hell lot of building up to be truly three-dimensional, while this fic deals primarily with Schuldig & Youji. 

I've tried to stay away from the somewhat clichéd let's-hurt-god aka blender-is-fun portrayal (speaking of which, why blender? I've never understood that point... please can somebody enlighten me?), but I don't know how successful that is. 

  


~~~

  


= Ken = 

Since it's set after the original TV series but before the OVA (& hence before the Dramatic Precious Albums), I decided to keep Ken a little unbalanced, but not really all that obviously so. If you don't know what goes on in those, I won't spoil you here... it'd suffice to know that as time progressed, Ken slowly went from the good boy next door to an assassin who actually, on some level, enjoyed killing. He's jumpy at times in this fic, but not really losing it. If you blink, you'd probably miss most of the references to the changes in our soccer lover. 

  


~~~

  


= Imagery = 

(muse: 'imagery'? sylphide: so sue me, I took literature in two languages last year. muse: O.O & now you're a double maths student... what does that say about your lit grades? sylphide: *sticks out tongue* I'm talented in many areas. muse: err... right.) 

The cicada itself is a metaphor (muse: more professional terms? helloooo?), & light/darkness plays a major part in the images I'm trying to invoke, especially in the later parts. I won't state them again here. Go back, & read slowly. *grins* 

_The last thing he needed was to have it haunt him for the rest of his life—especially since he did not intend for it to be a short life._

^___^ Why am I including this here? It's hubris. At least, 'hubris' as my lit teacher explained it: act of defiance/belief that one had control over one's own life, et cetera et cetera—which brings about divine intervention _just_ to prove one is wrong about the assumption of freedom. I'm laying stress on this line because this _is_ a deathfic, and Schuldig _will_ check out at some point in the future (this is taken from Part II) but, as yet, he didn't know that fate (sylphide: that's me! *waves* muse: *sweatdrops* excuse her... she's in holiday mode, not to mention that she's getting to the end of this way-too-long Afterword & feeling giddy over that, too...) had other ideas. 

  


~~~

  


(*pause* muse: oi, aren't you done yet? sylphide: hang on while I switch back to sane mode.) 

Yes, I'm done. Thanks for reading (both the fic itself and this long ramble... ^^;; ). I personally feel that reading a long story is like travelling a long journey together with the writer, into the world the writer has created; thank you for coming this far with me, and I hope we'll be travelling companions again some time. 

~ sylphide ~  
kampflied@hotmail.com or sylphide_z@yahoo.com 


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